Good Show!
by Fang's Fawn
Summary: Fourteen-year-old Mycroft Holmes enters himself and Redbeard in a junior handling class at a charity dog show being judged by a Home Office official he wants to impress. His little brother is NOT happy. What could possibly go wrong? Written before series 4 came out and jossed it. ;-)
1. Plots & Plans

**Author's note :** There's no denying it – I write a lot of angst! Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I did want to see if I could write something funny for a change. I originally intended this to be a one-shot, but, like Topsy, it "just growed" (as so often happens with my stories) until it became seven chapters (six chapters and an epilogue). Hopefully people will find it a fun read. :-)

The premise for this story grew out of my head canon for How Sherlock Came to Have an Irish Setter Named Redbeard As a Child. I go into this in depth in the prologue to my story, "An Innocent Man." "Good Show" is a stand-alone story; there should be enough references to Redbeard's beginnings that you don't need to read AIM at all. If, however, you wish to go a little deeper into the background I personally envisioned for Redbeard, and how it pertains to a young Mycroft and Sherlock, you _can_ read the prologue to AIM (which can also stand alone).

Enjoy!

* * *

The cottage was quiet when Mycroft got home from the library. Daddy was working. Mummy, who at this time of day was normally in her study poring over some obscure maths theorem after a morning of teaching Sherlock, was also absent – over breakfast she had announced her intention to do the week's shopping after lunch; apparently, she had taken Sherlock with her.

Mycroft took advantage of the rare solitude to indulge his sweet tooth with an extra-large slice of homemade orange sponge cake and a glass of milk. (Mummy didn't object to afternoon snacks, but the portion _she_ would have allotted to her son would have been considerably smaller.) He ate and drank standing at the kitchen worktop, a copy of last evening's newspaper tucked under his left arm, moodily glaring through the window at the copper beech in the back garden. His dour frame of mind spoiled somewhat his pleasure in the stolen treat.

Barely a week into the summer holidays and already he was bored nearly senseless.

Boredom was not a condition Mycroft was accustomed to experiencing (that was more his little brother's affliction). The older of the two prodigies' prodigious mind usually was more than up to the task of keeping its owner occupied – indeed, Mycroft's favorite way to spend summer mornings was in the reading room at the local library, immersing himself in political anthologies, memorizing historical tomes, and devouring every broadsheet he could lay his hands on cover to cover, from the _Telegraph_ to the _Guardian_ (he liked to imagine doing the same thing in an exclusive club someday). The _real_ challenge consisted of dodging Mummy's and Daddy's efforts to engage him in more physically active pursuits.

But on this particular summer day, Mycroft was regretting not accepting Michael Bradley's invitation to accompany him and his grandfather on a field trial training weekend in Sussex.

Leaving his plate, fork and glass in the sink, Mycroft nicked a packet of his father's Wine Gums from a jar on the worktop (Daddy also had a sweet tooth, though he did not seem to feel the need to indulge it as often as did his eldest son) and stomped through to the sitting room, flopping down in an armchair with an aggrieved sigh and dropping the rumpled paper on the floor near his feet.

Mycroft used to think his little brother was an idiot. It was an easy mistake – for one thing, few people _were_ as intelligent as Mycroft. For another, he'd had nothing else to go on until he was nine, when his brilliant but scattered mother got it into her head that the boys (whom she educated herself at home) might benefit from social interaction with other children and enrolled Mycroft in a number of local youth activities ranging from badminton to drama. After spending a tedious summer in the company of other eight-to-twelve-year-olds, Mycroft began to suspect his little brother might not be an idiot after all.

After his first term at secondary school he was sure.

Michael Bradley usually spent the summer holidays with his grandfather, a retired army officer, active member of the BASC*, and avid hunter who bred and trained Labrador Retrievers for field trials and showing. Michael had already attended a number of country shoots with his grandfather's gundog club, and this summer Colonel Westward had arranged for him to begin training to the gun with a trainer from his local field trial society.

The Colonel had told Michael he was welcome to invite the other eleventh-year boys in his house at school to come along on the trip. This included Mycroft, and, though he was at least two years younger than the youngest of these and already notoriously antisocial, Michael had dutifully extended the invitation as instructed.

Mycroft had recognized the offer for what it was at once, but since he could think of nothing he would prefer to do less than tramp across rough country terrain with the dull boys from his school, the sounds of popping guns and yapping dogs assaulting his ears, he had not felt the least bit put out at the half-heartedness of the offer – nor had he felt the least regret in declining it.

But that was _before_ Mycroft had learned from the latest edition of the _Press_ that Michael's uncle, also an avid gundog enthusiast, would be attending the shoot as well.

Brooding, Mycroft had just popped another Wine Gum into his mouth when he noticed suddenly that the house was not _quite_ so devoid of life after all: on the hearth rug before the empty fireplace lay Sherlock's enormous and gorgeous red setter. Second to his little brother's side, this was the dog's favorite spot year-round, basking in the warmth of a fire during the cold months and catching a bit of a breeze during the warmer ones.

Mycroft studied the animal for a moment. Redbeard ( _ridiculous name!_ ) had done no more than twitch his long, silky ears at Mycroft's entrance; he had not even bothered to open his eyes. _Some watchdog_ , the boy thought contemptuously.

A voice at the back of Mycroft's mind grudgingly acknowledged this thought wasn't _quite_ fair – though unusually placid for an Irish Setter, Redbeard had proven more than once that he could be quite formidable – even fierce – when he believed his family, particularly Sherlock, to be in any way threatened, or when strangers drew near to the home in a suspicious manner. His current nonchalance was likely due in a small part to the heat and in a large part to the probability that, owing to his sensitive hearing and keen sense of smell, he had known it was Mycroft coming before the boy had even reached the door.

Redbeard suddenly seemed to feel Mycroft's attention fixed upon him. Opening his eyes, he met Mycroft's gaze and, without lifting his head, acknowledged him with a single polite tail-thump before closing them again.

As far as canine welcomes went, this was less than heartwarming. Mildly insulted, Mycroft felt his mouth tighten. _Wretched beast._

Leaning forward suddenly, he snapped his fingers. "Come!"

Redbeard raised his head and stared at him, making no move to rise. He looked baffled – as well he might, for, since his earliest days in the Holmes household when he had first shown his marked preference for Sherlock above all other human beings, Mycroft had assiduously ignored him.

"Come _here_ ," Mycroft insisted, hand still extended.

After a moment of (apparent) pondering, Redbeard rose languidly, stretched, and unhurriedly padded over to Mycroft, his toenails clicking against the tiles. He settled next to the chair and looked up at Mycroft with an inquiring expression.

Mycroft frowned. "You know, you wouldn't even _be_ here if it weren't for me," he said crossly, reaching over to scratch the tangled red ears.

At this unusual attention, Redbeard shuffled his backside a bit closer; his jaws split in a doggy grin and he gently pushed the dome of his head up into Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft sighed. One couldn't expect gratitude from a _dog_ , and it wasn't as though Redbeard had been a stray cur, threatened with euthanasia should he not be adopted. He was of champion stock, and had been quite expensive, too.

"But if you'd been bought by another family you'd have missed having _Sherlock_ as your idol," Mycroft told him nastily.

Redbeard's ears pricked up at the sound of his master's name, then his eyes fastened on the packet of Wine Gums in Mycroft's other hand. He moved his tail back and forth on the rug, licked his chops, and adopted a soulful, hopeful expression. Grudgingly Mycroft gave the dog one of the blackcurrant ones, then sat back to enjoy the foolish spectacle the animal made of himself as he attempted to swallow the gummy candy that stuck to his teeth the moment he bit into it.

It was true – the Holmes household's very own soppy, boy-and-his-dog story would not have come to pass had Mycroft, at age ten, not asked his parents for a pedigreed puppy that he could show (a "sport" popular with influential people, and one of the few that Mycroft found at all palatable in terms of his personal involvement). Upon arriving home, however, the gentle, friendly red puppy had instantly become slavishly devoted to three-year-old Sherlock, effectively thwarting Mycroft's plot to get to know and, hopefully, to ingratiate himself with those who might improve his future prospects.

Mycroft hated sports. He was rather uncoordinated, more than a little pudgy, and completely uninterested in physical activities he felt were beneath him. But if feigning an interest in such unrefined pastimes could enable one to form alliances with _goldfish,_ whose family members could, in turn, prove instrumental in advancing one's future career, well…

Mycroft had been at school barely three weeks when he came to the conclusion that he inhabited a world primarily populated with goldfish. Michael Bradley _definitely_ was a goldfish – but he was a goldfish whose maternal uncle, Sir Geoffrey Westward, happened to be a civil servant for the Home Office.

Sighing again, Mycroft passed another of the blackcurrant Wine Gums to Redbeard and slouched back in his chair, glumly staring into the empty fireplace. He'd missed _another_ chance to position himself where important people might see him, but it wasn't the fault of a dog or his baby brother this time.

He told himself sternly it was pointless to brood over the situation – he had already refused the invitation, and there was the end of it. His relations with Michael Bradley were not such that ringing up the elder boy to tell him he had changed his mind was likely to be met with receptiveness – though Michael had striven to remain polite in the face of Mycroft's refusal of his invitation, he had not been _quite_ able to conceal his profound (albeit guilty) relief.

Redbeard gave a low whine. He nudged Mycroft's wrist with his cold, red-brown nose.

Absently, Mycroft gave him another Wine Gum.

 _Sherlock_ might be a target for bullies, but Mycroft's utter disinterest in his schoolmates, combined with his cool smile and a devastating courtesy that implied the recipient was unworthy of open rudeness, froze most would-be antagonists in their tracks. Like a well-fed wolf baring its teeth in casual warning, Mycroft offered just enough of a glimpse of his fearsome intellect and latent ruthlessness for his infinitely slower-witted peers to comprehend that making an enemy of him could be _very_ detrimental indeed.

That was fine with Mycroft. He was content to leave them alone as he preferred to be left alone himself, and if a little fear accomplished that, so much the better. But it _did_ mean invitations were few and far between. He could not afford to squander the ones he got – not when important people were involved, anyway.

Grimacing slightly, Mycroft popped another Wine Gum into his mouth, making room in the packet for his favorites by giving two more of the blackcurrant ones to the dog.

At times such as this he almost hated his own reasoning ability. As soon as he had read the announcement in last evening's _Press_ that Sir Geoffrey would be acting as a judge in a charity dog show on the coast in late July and, while in the area, that he intended to take the opportunity to spend time with his family, Mycroft had put the dots together.

The dog show Sir Geoffrey would be judging was to be in Scarborough the weekend following the field trial training. Westwoods, where Michael's grandfather (Sir Geoffrey's father) lived, was located in one of the district villages – Mycroft could not recall precisely which, but he'd had to listen to Michael natter on about his visits to the seaside in between KCJO** events every September since he began school, so he knew it couldn't be far from the town.

Mycroft passed the packet of remaining Wine Gums to a delighted Redbeard and scooped up the copy of the _Press_ he'd nicked from the library. Grimly, he again scanned through the article on the features page, then focused for the first time on an inset within the article about the dog show itself.

Redbeard gave a muffled whimper. "Shut up," Mycroft said impatiently.

The inset detailed a schedule of the classes offered at the event. Michael's grandmother, who preferred to compete in stakes and leave the field trials to her husband, would no doubt be in attendance with at least one of the Westwoods Kennel Labradors, but with her son acting as judge this would likely be only in a social capacity.

Redbeard scratched at Mycroft's arm with a tentative paw. Mycroft shrugged him off without looking up. "I don't _have_ anymore, idiot dog!"

Not that it _mattered_ if the Colonel's wife elected not to show any of the Westward dogs, Mycroft thought abstracted. Since this was a charity event it was an open show, not one where championship points could be attained to qualify a dog for Crufts. The important thing, though, is that the family would very likely be there anyway to support their son. Though, come to think of it, Mrs. Westward _might_ want to take advantage of the puppy classes and classes for twelve-to-eighteen months offered to give some of her novices experience–

Mycroft's eyes suddenly fell on a blurb just under the last entry on the list of classes:

 _This show will hold Junior Handling Classes for 12-16 years and 17-24 years._

For a long moment, Mycroft stared at the blurb. Then, as an idea began to take shape in his mind, he raised his head to look at Redbeard.

And found the hapless animal staring mournfully back at him, expressive eyes woebegone above the empty Wine Gums packet stuck on his muzzle.

* * *

When Mycroft announced his intention to enter Redbeard and himself in the junior handling class for twelve to sixteen-years at the charity dog show in Scarborough over dinner that night, his family stared at him as though he had suddenly grown an extra head.

Sherlock, predictably, recovered first and expressed his humble opinion in no uncertain terms through his mouthful of garlic bread.

" _NO."_

Mrs. Holmes, the full of her attention fixed upon her elder son, didn't seem to hear him.

"Mikey…you… _what_?"

"Really, son?" Daddy lowered his forkful of spaghetti bolognese to his plate untouched. "I thought you'd given that idea up when–"

"Yes, well," Mycroft said hastily. "Michael Bradley is going to be taking part, and he–"

"I said _no_ ," Sherlock cut in loudly. He swallowed the piece of bread in his mouth before continuing. "Redbeard is _my_ dog, and you can't just–"

"Hush, love," Mrs. Holmes interrupted distractedly. Then, to Mycroft, "Who's Michael Bradley?"

"He's–" Mycroft grimaced, "a…a _friend_ from school."

It sounded unbelievable even to him.

His parents looked utterly gobsmacked. Sherlock voiced what they all were thinking.

" _You_ have a friend?!"

"Sherlock, _hush_ ," said Mrs. Holmes sternly. She beamed at Mycroft. "Are you really making friends at last, love?"

Mycroft gave her a pained smile.

Mr. Holmes was also delighted. "That's fine, son, fine. Putting the books aside for once and getting out in the fresh air will do you no end of good!"

Now Mycroft's smile became a bit sour.

"Is anyone _listening_ to me?" Sherlock demanded. "Redbeard's _mine_ , he belongs to _me_ , and Mycroft hasn't even _asked_ me if he can show him!"

The seven-year-old tended to speak in italics a great deal these days. He glared at Mycroft from across the large wooden table, hunched slightly forward, gripping the seat of his tall chair with both hands. Mycroft could tell by the way his shoulders jerked up and down that Sherlock was angrily swinging his feet, which did not quite reach the floor; they could hear his heels kicking the rungs. The child's curls were scattered over his forehead, his lips were pressed together, and his pale eyes snapped. There was a spot of spaghetti sauce on his chin.

Mycroft studied the smaller boy with the fond mixture of mild irritation, habitual impatience, deeply buried affection, and vague disgust common to all big brothers.

"Little brother, _would_ you be so good as to allow me to enter your precious pet in a dog show?" He implored with barely concealed sarcasm.

Mrs. Holmes huffed impatiently. "Really, love, that's no way to–"

"No!" Sherlock said rudely.

Now Mummy turned to her younger son. " _Sherlock_. That's very unkind. Your brother isn't asking much. You must not be so selfish–"

"Son, you can't just show up to one of these things unprepared, charity event or not." Mr. Holmes, who appeared to have been thinking of other matters, suddenly spoke up. "I know you've read up on it, but you have no _practical_ experience with handling, and Redbeard hasn't been trained for that sort of thing."

"I've thought of that, Daddy," Mycroft said quickly. "The dog is already on a Kennel Club register, so I should be able to join our local ringcraft club. I checked their schedule already…they have a number of junior handling training events lined up over the next few weeks. I know it isn't a lot of time before the show, but you know I learn quickly, and Redbeard doesn't have an excitable nature…I think he would take to it straight away."

The four Holmeses looked toward the object of their discussion.

The dog in question was currently stretched out on his stomach in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room. He was not permitted in the kitchen during mealtimes, but he hated to have Sherlock out of his sight and so remained as close as he dared. So long as he was quiet and out from underfoot, Mrs. Holmes (for the sake of peace) pretended she did not notice the large red paws extending over the doorframe and onto her kitchen linoleum.

Mycroft saw Sherlock studying his pet with furrowed brows, seeming to notice the animal's uncharacteristic lethargy for the first time since he arrived home from his afternoon out with Mummy.

Redbeard had met Sherlock at the door with something less than his usual enthusiasm and a surprising lack of vocalizations, but Sherlock had been too anxious to return to the chemistry set his mother had dragged him away from earlier to spare his pet more than the most perfunctory of greetings. Now the dog lay with his head on his fore paws, but instead of being fixed alertly on the family as was usual for him, his eyes were cast down with the rather of preoccupied air he had assumed since Mycroft freed him of the empty Wine Gums packet earlier.

 _Probably sulking because I didn't give him the_ entire _packet_ , Mycroft thought irritably.

Without asking to be excused, Sherlock suddenly climbed down from his chair and went to crouch beside his pet on the linoleum.

"What's wrong, Redbeard? What is it, boy?" he murmured softly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Well, sounds as though you've thought it all out, son, as usual," Mr. Holmes said happily. "It's good to see you trying something new. And Sherlock, you needn't worry about having to share your dog…we'll treat this as a one-off, just so your brother can try it out. If, after the show, he thinks he'd like to make a hobby out of it, why, we could get another dog–"

"Now wait just a moment!" Mrs. Holmes began in protest. (The dog may have been Sherlock's, but the young boy was not particularly conscientious about caring for his pet's needs and most of Redbeard's actual care fell to her by default.)

She was interrupted by a sudden cry of distress from Sherlock.

"Daddy! Mummy! Something's wrong with Redbeard! He can't…he can't get his mouth open!"

His parents and brother looked down, startled.

"What's that, son?" Rising from the table, Mr. Holmes knelt down next to Sherlock on the kitchen floor. Taking Redbeard's slim head in his hands, he tried to prise the setter's jaws apart to no avail. Peeling back the animal's lips, he frowned.

"There's some gunk in his teeth…what _have_ you been eating, old lad?"

Mycroft suddenly wished there was another way out of the kitchen to his room.

Mr. Holmes looked up at his wife. "Love, hand me a spoon, will you?"

She was aghast. "You're never going to stick one of our spoons for eating in that dog's mouth!"

Mr. Holmes held his hand out insistently. "Cruel to leave him like this, now," he said mildly. "Pass me the spoon, please, love."

Sighing, Mrs. Holmes rose, retrieved a spoon from a drawer, and handed it over to her husband. "I'm binning that when you're done, I'll have you know!" She grumbled.

Mycroft and Sherlock watched (one nervously, the other anxiously) as their father pried the setter's jaws apart, then scraped a gummy black substance from his strong white teeth.

Mr. Holmes released Redbeard's head; the dog frantically worked his jaws for a moment as though relishing the chance to stretch the cramped muscles, then dashed to his water dish and began gulping noisily.

Mr. Holmes frowned down at the contents of the spoon. "What on earth–?"

Sherlock snatched the spoon from his father and, before his mother could stop him, raised it to his nose and sniffed. "Wine Gums!" He exclaimed, turning accusing eyes on his brother.

Mrs. Holmes put her hands on her hips and eyed her elder son narrowly.

"Young man, have you been at your father's sweeties again?"

Assuming an air of injured dignity, Mycroft attempted to prevaricate. "Mummy, why would you _automatically_ assume it was me?"

Still looking stern, Mrs. Holmes smiled slightly. "Because _you're_ the only one in this house who won't eat the blackcurrant ones, _that's_ why…you boys aren't the only ones 'round here who can 'deduce,' you know!"

Sherlock snorted laughter.

* * *

"I'm not stupid, you know."

"Where _do_ you get that idea?" Mycroft murmured without looking up from his book.

He was lying on his bed, reading. Near the door, his annoying little brother stood just inside the bedroom, Redbeard at his side.

Sherlock ignored this. "There are three things you hate above all others, Mycroft: exercise, fresh air, and _people_. So, why do you _really_ want to put _my_ dog in some _idiotic_ show?"

"It's for a good cause," Mycroft said loftily.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. " _What_ cause?"

Mycroft froze. _Bugger_.

" _Aha_!" Sherlock cried. "You don't even know!"

"Of course I do," Mycroft retorted, lowering his book and raising himself on one elbow to glare at the younger boy. "It's for–" he wracked his brain and snatched a likely name from memory "–the Kennel Club Charitable Trust."

"No, it's not!" Sherlock was triumphant. "It's for Macmillan Cancer support, I looked it up!

Mycroft just barely resisted the urge to throw a pillow at him.

"That's _all_ you know," Mycroft snapped. "I told you at dinner, my friend–"

"You don't _have_ friends! And I _saw_ the notice in the paper, Mycroft; I'll bet you didn't even know about it before today!"

Mycroft gritted his teeth as he attempted to rein himself in.

"I want to borrow your wretched hound for one afternoon, Sherlock. It won't kill you to lend him to me for four or five hours…or are you afraid he'll come to prefer me over you?"

Sherlock laughed outright at this, not even bothering to answer. His confidence infuriated Mycroft, the more so because he knew it was not misplaced – Redbeard adored Sherlock.

Suddenly weary, the elder boy leaned back against his pillow and raised his book again, blocking his view of his brother and his brother's dog.

"Tattle to Mummy if you like, Sherlock, but it won't make any difference," he said with an air of assumed indifference. "You saw them at dinner – they're delighted to think I'm doing something… _extracurricular_ with one of those dullards from school, and they'll want to encourage that no matter what tales you choose to tell them."

Mycroft had him there, and, judging from the scowl on his face, Sherlock knew it.

"You may fool Mummy and Daddy, but you can't fool _me_ , brother mine," Sherlock snapped. "I _will_ find out what you're up to!"

And he stormed off to his own room as noisily as possible.

Noting the absent sound of clicking toenails trailing after Sherlock over the wood floor, Mycroft lowered the book again to see Redbeard still standing in the doorway, watching him.

"I fail to grasp why you chose to lavish all your devotion on that spoiled brat," Mycroft sniffed.

Redbeard looked at him with mournful brown eyes.

Then he apologetically vomited half-digested Wine Gums all over the bedroom carpet.

* * *

*British Association for Shooting and Conservation

**Kennel Club Junior Organisation, later changed to the Young Kennel Club.

 _Many thanks to englishtutor and Wynsom for their proofreading skills and encouragement!_


	2. Ringcraft Training

"No need to be squeamish, Mike," Sam Carraclough* said encouragingly.

Mycroft's jaw tightened. He _hated_ to be called "Mike" (even by his parents, though he knew better than to correct _them_ – well, usually). But he had already offered a vocal objection to the trainer's use of "lad" today, and, as it was his first handling class, he thought he'd better not push his luck any further. Carraclough looked like the type of man who would humor a young person, or an animal, only so far and no farther. The trainer was well into his sixties – a healthy, robust, stocky man with a heavy shock of snow-white hair and a brown, weather-beaten face. He had been handling dogs professionally for more than thirty years, and though his eyes were kind, there was a brisk, no-nonsense sort of look in them that warned Mycroft that adopting a superior tone would not be well received here.

Acutely aware of the eyes of the other junior handlers fixed on him, Mycroft forced himself to reach firmly under Redbeard's abdomen to haul him into a standing position.

He grabbed the wrong part of the dog's anatomy.

Redbeard let out a startled yelp and whipped his head around to nip at Mycroft's wrist. Mycroft jerked his hand back.

"Careful, careful," Sam cautioned. "Just a light touch will do it. Here, like this…"

Taking Redbeard's muzzle in his right hand, the trainer moved the blunt, calloused, yet careful fingers of his left in a gentle tickling motion over the dog's left stifle. "Stand," he said in a calm, firm voice.

Neck tense, Redbeard hesitated – then, when the trainer tightened his grip on the martingale lead ever so lightly, he resentfully rose to his feet, glaring reproachfully at Mycroft as he did so.

"Good lad, _good_!" Sam said approvingly, releasing the lead at once. Redbeard continued to look offended, though he did thaw slightly when Sam backed up the verbal affirmation with a tidbit.

Mycroft and the trainer watched as the dog grudgingly downed the treat.

"He's a good-natured fellow," Sam observed.

" _Good-natured?"_ Mycroft said snappishly, glaring at Redbeard as he rubbed the phantom tingle in his wrist. "He tried to _bite_ me!"

"Son, that was just a bit of a warning…he didn't even _try_ to touch you with his teeth. If you'd grabbed at _me_ in that particular region, _I_ wouldn't have taken it near so well, believe me!"

It might have been because he spent so much time with dogs, but Carraclough's laugh sounded rather like a bark.

Mycroft's four classmates laughed politely.

He wanted to favor them all with his most shark-like smile, but somehow managed to refrain. It wasn't easy – he was in a black mood, and even Redbeard's usually placid temper had finally given way to sullenness. The day had gone pear-shaped for both of them before breakfast.

When Mycroft, still in his dressing gown and slippers, had come down to the kitchen that morning, Sherlock and Redbeard were nowhere to be found. Mummy, sipping her coffee while leafing through a copy of _The Journal of the London Mathematical Society_ , had been unconcerned.

"Get yourself some toast, Mike," she said without looking up. "Your brother often takes the dog out for his morning run at this hour; he'll be back well before you have to leave for the Village Hall. He knows he _must_ to be back before then, anyway – I'm taking him for a haircut before his violin lesson, and I've let him know that if we miss that appointment I'll do the job myself!"

This was indeed a serious threat – Mrs. Holmes had many skills, but it must be owned that cutting hair was not one of them. Mycroft was reassured…if Sherlock's timely return with the dog had depended solely on Mycroft's need to be at the Village Hall in time for his first class in handling, the older boy had no doubt his little brother would not have reappeared until well after midnight. Threatened with one of Mummy's hair hatchet jobs, however…well, even Sherlock, careless of his appearance as he was, would not want to risk it, and Mycroft deduced that boy and dog would be back in plenty of time.

What he had _not_ deduced, however, was that they would have spent the morning pond dipping.

* * *

He knew something was amiss the moment he heard Mummy's exasperated shout from the garden. Hurrying to identify the trouble, he had frozen with horror at the sight of them – Sherlock and Redbeard in high spirits, both soaking wet, bedraggled and muddy, and stinking to high heaven.

Sherlock's Wellies were mud-caked, rendered useless by the fact that their owner had apparently gone wading up to his thighs (the Wellies only came to his knees). A magnifying glass stuck out of the boy's right breast pocket. In one hand he held a net he had fashioned out of a wire coat hanger and an old pair of their mother's tights (which, Mycroft guessed, his brother had nicked from Mummy's laundry basket, given the outraged glare she was giving them now). In his other hand, he held a clear glass mixing bowl he'd taken from the kitchen. The bowl was half-full of dirty water, and Mycroft could see an array of creatures swimming about in it, including tadpoles, water mites, and backswimmers. As he stared in disbelief, a pond skater leapt lightly from the bowl and disappeared into the grass.

Mummy seized Sherlock by the arm and dragged him into the cottage, ignoring the seven-year-old's shouted protests as pond water containing his new treasures slopped up and out of the bowl. When Redbeard tried to slip through the door as well she pushed him back with her foot and slammed the door in his face.

Mycroft, still standing on the stoop, stared in disbelief at Redbeard. The dog was drenched and filthy; the feathers on his legs, belly and tail were stringy with mud, as were his long ears. He positively _reeked_ of pond water. Meeting Mycroft's gaze, he whined hopefully, giving the door a significant glance. _Let me in, please?_

Leaving him outside, Mycroft hurried into the house.

Following the shouts of "Mummy, they're for an _experiment_!" he found his mother and Sherlock in the boys' bathroom. A very indignant Sherlock, now dressed in only pants and vest, squirmed before the basin as Mummy hurriedly scrubbed at this face, ears, neck and hands.

"I'm going to experiment on _you_ , young man!" Mrs. Holmes threatened, vigorously rubbing a towel over Sherlock's curls. "I warn you that if we miss that appointment I'm going to shave you bald-headed for the summer! Oh, dear, the _smell_ ," she mourned. She threw her hands up in frustration, glanced at the clock on the wall, then hurriedly began to put a fresh pair of trousers, socks and shirt on her son, ignoring him when he struggled, insisting he could dress himself.

Mycroft pushed away daydreams of electrocuting his small brother later to address the more immediate problem. "But Mummy, _Redbeard_!"

"What about him?" Mummy, distracted, seized the newly dressed Sherlock's hand and hurried him down the stairs.

Mycroft followed. "He's a _mess_! My first handling class is today, I can't take him looking like _that_!"

 _Or_ smelling _like that, either_ , he added in his head.

Mrs. Holmes had already disappeared into the kitchen. He ran after her.

"Get those on, _now_ ," she commanded, shoving a pair of dry shoes at Sherlock. She seized her handbag as Sherlock, plopping sullenly onto the floor, began pulling on his shoes.

Glancing at her older son, she said, "Mike, I'd bath him for you if I could, but I just don't have time." She glanced at the clock. "Oh! Come _on_ , Sherlock!" She snatched her keys from the worktop.

"But what am I supposed to–"

"You're a smart boy, figure it out!" she cried, hurrying to the car. "The flea shampoo is under the sink – use that!"

As they drove off, Sherlock looked back at Mycroft from the passenger side window and shot him a wicked grin.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Mycroft shook his fist at the receding vehicle, then whirled abruptly back towards the house. He almost tripped over Redbeard, who had dashed after him towards the car and now stood looking after it, bereft.

For a moment Mycroft just stared down at the dog, wrinkling his nose. Redbeard looked back, wagging his tail hopefully. Sherlock had probably forgotten to feed him – very likely, in fact, since he had probably forgotten to feed _himself_ that morning, too.

"Come on," Mycroft said bitterly, shuddering as he seized the dog's slimy collar. He hauled Redbeard through the back door, deliberately kicking over the mixing bowl as he did so, sending the pond creatures scrabbling for cover. Once they were in the kitchen, Redbeard immediately tried to lead Mycroft to his food dish, but Mycroft tugged impatiently at the collar. _"No."_

Redbeard allowed Mycroft to lead him up the stairs to the boys' bathroom willingly enough, leaving behind muddy paw prints all along the hallway floor. His easy acquiescence annoyed rather than pleased Mycroft.

 _Sherlock's not here; that's why he's condescending to come with me_ , he thought resentfully.

Pushing the dog into the tiny bathroom, Mycroft quickly pulled the door shut after him, then went back downstairs to find the flea shampoo. Behind the bathroom door, Redbeard gave a quiet whimper. He appeared puzzled but unafraid when Mycroft returned a few moments later, but that changed when he spotted the bottle of flea shampoo and his own brush balanced on top of the stack of fluffy towels the boy carried. Flattening his ears, he shrank back against the wall as Mycroft closed the bathroom door behind him with his foot, dropped the towels on the floor, set the brush on the vanity, and began to fill the tub.

He'd never done this before and hadn't the least idea how to begin, but given that Redbeard was already shaking like a leaf, alternately panting and whimpering while scratching at the door until he gouged the wood and left long furrows behind in the paint, Mycroft figured it would be best to maintain an air of calm authority. Pouring about half the bottle of the pink flea shampoo into the steaming, swirling water, he rolled up the sleeves of his dressing gown, turned to the cowering setter, and snapped his fingers. "Come!"

Wide-eyed and panting, the dog (who obviously guessed what came next) simply stared at him. _Not a chance._

Jaw tense, Mycroft seized Redbeard by the scruff of the neck and hauled him across the tiles; the dog didn't struggle or try to flee, but he didn't help, either, instead going stiff, his shoulders hunched and his tail between his legs. Exerting all his strength, Mycroft unceremoniously heaved the seventy-five-pound animal up and over the side of the tub and into the water with a mighty splash.

He saw at once that he'd filled the tub too much – warm water slopped up and over the side of the tub, wetting the floor and the knees of Mycroft's pajama trousers. To his great relief, Redbeard did not try to leap out of the tub, but simply crouched on his hindquarters, shrinking in on himself, shivering and panting as Mycroft grimly set about scrubbing him down.

As the revolting pond smell began to evaporate, to be replaced by a clean, soapy smell with the faint, chemical overtones of flea repellent, Mycroft realized his second mistake – he'd added far too much shampoo to the water when he'd run the bath. It churned into a bubbly froth that, instead of dissipating, had only become thicker with the additional shampoo Mycroft rubbed into the long, silky strands that now floated about the dog, and he saw there was no way he could use the tub water to rinse Redbeard clean. He reached down to pull the plug out of the drain. As he did so, the sleeves of his dressing gown came down, wetting him to the elbow. Muttering darkly, Mycroft rocked back on his heels so he could shrug off the now-sopping dressing gown.

It was during that brief moment of distraction, while his hands were occupied, that the wretched creature decided to try to make a break for it.

Redbeard burst out of the tub, bringing half the water in it with him and knocking Mycroft sideways with his shoulder. Skidding across the tiles to the closed door and finding his escape barred, he gave in to his second instinct and shook himself vigorously, soaking Mycroft completely and spraying water and soap suds everywhere. By the time Mycroft managed to get free of his dressing gown (which had seemed intent on holding him back), the tiled floor, vanity, and mirror – even the light fixtures and parts of the ceiling – were all dripping.

Furiously, Mycroft wiped his face free of the suds, glared at the dog, then turned back to the tub to find it had stopped draining. Pushing aside the suds floating on top of the water above the drain, he soon discovered why – the drain was now clogged with long red hairs. Grimacing, Mycroft scooped them out with his fingers, allowed the tub to finish emptying, then rinsed it out before going to fetch Redbeard back again.

By this point, though, the setter had apparently decided he'd had enough. He struggled mightily this time as Mycroft manhandled him back into the tub, inadvertently scratching the boy's arms in his attempt to break free.

" _Enough!"_ Mycroft roared. He pulled the belt out of the loops of his dressing gown, knotted one end round Redbeard's neck and the other round the tap, pulled the shower curtain to, and turned on the shower.

For the next few minutes Mycroft played goalkeeper as the panicked animal attempted to jump out of the tub, ruthlessly shoving the long, red snout back at whichever end it appeared. Recognizing the futility of escape, the dismayed and bewildered dog sat down under the spray, pointed his muzzle to the ceiling, and began to howl loudly.

Almost immediately there was a sound of running footsteps followed by a hurried knock on the bathroom door. "Mycroft?! Son, what's happening in there?"

Mycroft groaned inwardly. He'd forgotten Daddy. Clambering to his feet, he opened the bathroom door. Mr. Holmes, barefoot, disheveled and in the act of pulling his own dressing gown on over his pajamas, gaped, wide-eyed, at the dripping and ransacked bathroom. "What on earth–?"

At that moment, Redbeard let out another piercing wail from behind the shower curtain. Stepping past Mycroft, Mr. Holmes pulled aside the curtain and groaned.

"Oh, Mycr–... _really_?" He turned off the water, untied Redbeard, lifted him out of the tub and stood him on the bath mat. "Shut that door, son, we don't want him getting out. Come on, old lad, we'll get you sorted."

"He needed a bath, and Mummy _said_ I should do it," Mycroft said defensively, uncomfortably aware of how much he sounded like his little brother in that moment instead of the suave, mature young man he liked to think himself. "Sherlock had taken him _pond dipping_ , of all things, and my first class with him is at ten."

Mr. Holmes sighed as he began energetically rubbing down the violently shivering dog with one of the towels. "Son, your mother doesn't bath him indoors." He sounded tired but unfailingly patient, which was somehow worse than if he'd shouted because the tone made Mycroft feel childish. "There's a galvanized tub in the shed; she sets that up in the garden when the weather is warm. She just fills it with the hose and adds hot water from the kitchen in a bucket, then uses the bucket to rinse him."

Mycroft was flustered; he _abhorred_ feeling ignorant. "She never _said_ –"

"Never mind," his father interrupted him kindly. "Grab a towel and come help me dry this fellow. Then you'll just have time to get ready yourself before you must be off." Daddy glanced round the bathroom with a sigh. "While you're gone I'll take care of this mess…Lord help us all if I don't get it finished before your Mum gets home…"

Over the next ten minutes they each went through two towels, and _still_ the heavy red coat refused to dry all the way through. Mr. Holmes sat back on his heels, thinking hard as he and he and Mycroft surveyed the miserable, stupefied beast for a moment. Then an idea hit him. "The hair dryer!" he exclaimed.

Mycroft clung onto Redbeard with all his might as the big dog squirmed and howled in fright while Mr. Holmes blew his long auburn hair dry. When they finally released him, Redbeard immediately bolted from the bathroom and raced headlong down the hall to Sherlock's room, where he pawed frantically at the closed door before giving up and fleeing to the kitchen. By the time Mr. Holmes and Mycroft caught up with him he was shaking under the kitchen table, apparently no longer even caring about breakfast so long as he was left in peace.

Daddy sighed again. "You'd better go and get dressed. Use your Mum's and my bath. I'll brush him out for you."

When Mycroft descended to the kitchen a short time later, dressed resplendently in a new suit and freshly polished shoes, Redbeard's coat was clean, dry and fluffy, and Mr. Holmes was just hanging up the phone. He gave his son an apologetic look.

"Mike, I'm sorry…that was your mother. She and Sherlock were late to the barber so your brother missed his appointment. The barber said he'd be able to fit him in after the violin lesson, though, so Mum won't be coming home with the car – I'm afraid you'll have to walk over the Village Hall."

Mycroft was aghast. "But Daddy, that's over _a mile_ away!"

He never walked anywhere if he could possibly help it.

"Not so very far, then. Go on, son, you'll just have time if you leave now. The fresh air and exercise will do you good."

* * *

By the time Mycroft had arrived at the Village Hall, his feet were a mass of blisters from his new shoes, while the suit, early summer heat, and his own lack of conditioning had completely undone the good of his shower, leaving him sweaty and dusty.

Worse still, he was decidedly overdressed. One of the things about dog handling that appealed to Mycroft was the emphasis placed on dressing smartly in the show ring. Mycroft prided himself on dressing well, but apparently the dog show dress code did not extend to training classes: the other young people in his class were all dressed in either shorts or jeans, and all four of them were wearing trainers.

Worst of all, though, was Redbeard.

The class was in beginning handling, but not all the students were _quite_ beginners – the blonde, sixteen-year-old girl (whose equally blonde saluki looked every bit as haughty and bored as her young mistress) had already competed in two shows (one of them a Crufts qualifier), and the fifteen-year-old boy with the affable, loutish Staffordshire bull terrier had competed in one. Since he was not the only rank beginner, though, this did not intimidate Mycroft unduly – the twelve-year-old girl with the nervous, black-and-tan longhaired dachshund, and the fifteen-year-old boy with the still-puppyish golden retriever, were equally inexperienced.

Their dogs, however, were not. Even those students whose dogs had never been shown in a qualifying class (which was all of them but the saluki) had at least _some_ training to prepare them for conformation showing. Redbeard was the only dog present that had had no ringcraft training whatsoever, and he quickly made it quite clear that he was not at all interested in learning.

Perhaps he'd have been more open-minded had his morning not been so traumatic. By the time Mr. Holmes had finished brushing him out, the dog's fright and bewilderment had passed and he had been in a sulk worthy of Sherlock. He was a forgiving animal, though – with Sherlock as his master, he had to be – and receiving his breakfast had gone far towards restoring Mr. Holmes back in his good books. Redbeard loved walks, so, in theory, the same should have held true for Mycroft during their walk to the Village Hall, and it probably would have had Mycroft used Redbeard's own familiar, worn and comfortable leather collar and lead. But the dog's customary collar was still slimy from pond scum and rank with the heavy stench of decay, so Mycroft decided there was no time like the present for the setter to begin to become accustomed to the martingale lead he would have to wear in the ring.

A collar and lead in one, this piece of show tack sat higher on Redbeard's neck than a usual dog's collar. It had a control loop attached to the lead portion that caused the collar to tighten when the lead was pulled, designed to act as a check for undesirable behavior and compelling the dog to stand and accompany its handler in a docile manner. Because the pressure exerted by the martingale collar was greater at the back of a dog's head rather than the trachea, it was considered a gentler, more humane alternative to the common choke chain.

Redbeard, however, was decidedly unimpressed with the "humanity" of this device. He heeled so perfectly for Sherlock that he never needed even a traditional lead (unless they were in a place where the law required he wear one, in which case he carried it so slackly that there was never any tension in it at all), and he had grown to adulthood accustomed to having his head entirely free at all times – a state preferred by all animals.

A free head on a dog, however, was _not_ going to impress any conformation show judge.

"You need to get this through your brains first and foremost, kids," Carraclough told them at the beginning of the lesson. "You do _not_ control your dog until you control his head. Repeat that to yourselves morning, noon, and night. Write it down on a scrap of paper and stick it in the fridge!"

The large, grey-haired trainer laughed, and four of the five young people in the class laughed along with him. Mycroft just managed to suppress a vicious eye-roll, which caused his expression to turn rather fixed. The trainer shot him a sympathetic look as though he suspected Mycroft were ill, but made no comment.

In truth, Mycroft _did_ feel a bit ill.

This first class had focused on the most basic, yet important aspect of dog showing – getting the canine to stand – or "stack" – in a pose best calculated to show off its physique to the greatest advantage. Very experienced dogs will "free stack" throughout the show, only requiring the handler to "hand stack" them (i.e. manually position the legs) just prior to examination by the judge. But before a dog could learn to stack, it must first learn to stand, squarely and stilly, on its handler's command, and remain standing, allowing itself to be positioned as the handler dictates, until it is given leave to stop.

The saluki had stood on command coldly, haughtily, almost contemptuously, as though she could hardly believe she and her young mistress were in a class so far beneath their superior abilities and were only longing to have it all over with as quickly as possible. The high-strung dachshund, which had to practice its "stand" on the folding table, kept getting distracted by the trainer's tie, which, judging by her frantic yapping, she seemed to think was about to attack her each time the breeze gently buffeted it. The lazy Staffordshire seemed to know full well this wasn't a real competition, and therefore thought there was no point in putting himself to any extra effort, while the mischievous and wiggly retriever appeared more inclined to regard the whole thing as a delightful game thought up for his amusement, and to prefer gnawing on his young master's fingers over standing.

In the end, though, all had managed to stand for their young would-be handlers if only for a moment – all except Redbeard. In a bad mood already because of the bath, he found the martingale lead especially insulting, becoming moodier and more sullen the longer he wore it. He had lagged behind Mycroft while the class practiced gaiting** (which was saying something, since Mycroft moved at a speed roughly equivalent to that of a turtle wading through peanut butter), and he outright refused every attempt on Mycroft's part to get him to stand. By the time Carraclough had stepped in to persuade him with his calm, firm authority, the setter was in a strop worthy of his young master.

Mycroft was never so happy to hear the village clock chime one. He was hot, hungry, thirsty, and tired; his feet were killing him, and, though he would never have admitted it aloud, he was discouraged. He was deeply relieved when he spotted the family car in the car park, and his mother waving at him.

He was less pleased a half a moment later when he saw Sherlock pop out the passenger side door and come running towards him.

Perking up at once, Redbeard gave a short, happy bark and strained against the lead. Sighing, Mycroft slipped the collar over his head.

"There, go, you wretched beast," he muttered. He needn't have bothered – the moment his head was free Redbeard was off like an arrow from a bow, galloping towards Sherlock with his feathery red tail high and waving madly. When they came together, the dog bowled the boy over and they began wrestling in the grass.

 _Mummy will like_ that, Mycroft thought , imagining the grass stains on Sherlock's clothing as he started for the table to fetch his junior handler's packet.

Carraclough's voice stopped him. "Mike…wait a mo', would you?"

Mycroft turned to face the elder man. "Yes, Mr. Carraclough?"

"You can call me 'Sam,' Mike."

Mycroft merely smiled slightly in response. The trainer sighed. "Right. Anyway, I wanted to ask you…how old is…?"

"His registered name is Tam O'Shanter of Knightscroft," Mycroft explained. Then, grimacing, he added, "At home he's called 'Redbeard.'"

"Right," Sam said briskly. "And how old is Redbeard?"

"Just over four years."

"I see." The trainer fell silent, looking towards Redbeard and Sherlock in a pondering sort of way.

Mycroft's heart sank. "Are you trying to tell me that the saying, 'one can't teach an old dog new tricks' is factual?"

The trainer looked up then. "No, not at all. I don't believe that at all," he said earnestly. "And I don't want you to be discouraged by the way things went today, Mike…I'm confident we can get Redbeard – and you – ready for the ring in time."

Mycroft's relief was palpable but short-lived as Sam continued. "I'm just not confident we can get you both ready in time for the show at Scarborough, though."

Mycroft's face fell. "But Mr. …er, _Sam_ …the dachshund and the retriever weren't much better than–"

"I know son," Carraclough interrupted, forgetting Mycroft's earlier injunction in his attempt to soften the blow. "But they're not aiming for a show that's only six weeks out. Fiona has an eye on a show for the doxie near Christmas, and Joe isn't planning to put his retriever into the ring before next summer. If you had another dog now, with a bit more experience–"

"Redbeard is registered with the Kennel Club," Mycroft protested. "His pedigree–"

"I can see for myself that he comes from championship stock," Carraclough said patiently. "He's a lovely animal, and I've no doubt you could take him to Crufts one day. But a _junior_ handling class isn't about the dog so much as it is about the handler. It will be _you_ being judged at this one, Mike, not Redbeard. If it were a breed showing competition, that would be one thing, but most of the kids I get at the matches here either have the time to learn along with their novice dog, or they learn on an experienced dog who will help them to look good."

That shut Mycroft up for a moment. He wanted, above all, to look good at this competition. He wanted Sir Geoffrey Westward to be impressed with Redbeard – as beautiful a gundog as one could hope to see, and one Mycroft had chosen himself as a puppy – but even more so, he wanted Sir Geoffrey to be impressed with _him_. If Redbeard couldn't manage that–

But he _had_ to. Mycroft didn't have another eligible dog to work with, and no hope of getting another in time for this particular show – the only show, perhaps, that the busy man might ever judge in this part of the country.

"I'd like to at least _try_ ," Mycroft said desperately. "Mayn't I at least try?"

"Well–"

"Mycroft, come _on_. Mummy's waiting!"

Carraclough looked over Mycroft's shoulder towards Sherlock, then flicked his eyes back to Mycroft's. "Sure, sure…let's keep on with the classes, and see how he gets on over the next few weeks, yeah?"

He smiled gamely at Mycroft, but didn't look particularly hopeful.

Mycroft stood so deep in thought as Sam trudged away that for a moment he forgot where he was until Sherlock suddenly leapt onto his back from behind, causing him to stumble.

"Come _on_ , Mike, it's _boring_ here!"

"Urgh – get _off_ , you boil!" Dumping his younger brother onto the grass unceremoniously, Mycroft turned to glare down at him, straightening his jacket as he did so. " _Why_ do you always have to behave like a foolish, _stupid_ little boy? You have less sense than any of these ridiculous dogs. And _don't_ call me Mike!" he snapped.

A pang of conscience smote him when he saw what might have been a flicker of hurt flash across Sherlock's face – he knew he wasn't being fair, that he was taking his frustration and disappointment out on the younger boy – but, at a second look, Sherlock's face appeared unconcerned as he turned towards Redbeard (who was happily nuzzling his cheek), and Mycroft thought he must have imagined it.

Sherlock's tone was unaffectedly casual as he scratched Redbeard's ears with both hands. "Did he behave himself?"

 _Yes…I definitely imagined it._

"He didn't, as it happens. Your dog is an idiot." Hauling the smaller boy to his feet by his right arm, Mycroft began brushing him off with rather more force than was strictly necessary. "Mummy will obliterate you if you get grass all over the car–"

Sherlock twisted away, glaring at him. "He's _not_ an idiot! He's _clever_ – _too_ clever to bother with dashing round and round a ring, like a Teddy Bear!" He sang the last part.

"It's _garden_." Mycroft couldn't help correcting him, even though he knew Sherlock knew the nursery rhyme perfectly well and was just trying to be annoying. _As though he even_ has _to try._ "And he _didn't_ have to trot round the ring today, he just had to stand so I could hand-stack him, and he was too stupid even to manage that!" he added acidly.

He knew, though, that this wasn't true. Redbeard had understood perfectly what he was supposed to do…he simply hadn't wanted to do it for Mycroft, and so he had chosen not to. The thought stung.

Now Sherlock's eyebrows drew downward. " _Stacking_ is stupid," he said coldly.

Then, after a pause, "What's 'stacking'?"

Mycroft sighed condescendingly. "It's when the dog has to stand still so the handler can arrange him in the stance that's right for his breed." He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye – at the far side of the ring, the sniffy girl with the saluki stacking her dog for the boy with the Staffordshire. He drew Sherlock's attention to them.

"You see? It's like that."

Sherlock looked. "That's idiotic," he announced. "And _easy_. Redbeard can do _that_."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and started walking toward the folding table to retrieve his junior handling packet. "I assure you he can't. He didn't do it even once."

"He _can_. Redbeard, here!" Frowning, Sherlock looked round again at the girl with the saluki, who was now observing the boy attempt to stack his Staffordshire. Studying them with that intense gaze that was so uncharacteristic of a seven-year-old, he knelt down at the expectant setter's side. Glancing again at the boy with the Staffordshire to be sure he was doing it right, Sherlock slipped his right hand under Redbeard's jaw and ran his left down the dog's sleek back to his tail.

"Now, _stand_ ," came Sherlock's imperious command, and he exerted a tiny bit of pressure with his right hand on the spot where the martingale lead would have pressed in had the dog still been wearing it.

And, just like that, the wretched creature stacked perfectly, falling into the ideal pose with his hind legs well back, his forepaws planted firmly below his shoulders, and his chin well up.

"See?" Sherlock was triumphant as he leaned back to grin up at Mycroft who, mouth agape with disbelief, unthinkingly stepped forward and slid his own hand along Redbeard's jaw across from him. The only thing that was not correct was the tail, which was waving back and forth, expressing its owner's pleasure in having pleased his little master. Mycroft automatically ran his right hand along the underside of the tail; it stilled, allowing him to position it properly.

Still grinning, Sherlock scrambled to his feet and backed up a few paces to get a more complete picture. "There! He's doing it even _better_ than those other stupid dogs!"

"Well, bloody hell…Mike, that's _perfect_!"

Carraclough's voice from behind Mycroft made both brothers jump. The trainer stared wonderingly at this miraculous transformation – the poised, handsome animal before them bore no resemblance to the sullen, mulish creature he had observed all through class.

Turning back to the dog, Mycroft could understand Carraclough's admiration. They had always known Redbeard was beautiful, but his current pose displayed both his perfect conformation and the pride and dignity of his breed as never before. The freshly washed coat gleamed like burnished copper in the early afternoon sunshine, adding to the effect – Daddy hadn't done badly, but with a _proper_ grooming job, it was plain to see that Redbeard would be matchless.

"That's _wonderful_ , Mike, just right! You got him to do it – you even got him to do it for your brother!"

"He didn't–" Sherlock began, then yelped. " _OUCH_!"

Mycroft had trodden on his foot.

"I must have been nervous with everyone watching me," he said to trainer, trying to look abashed and failing.

Luckily, Sam was focused on the dog.

"Well, _that's_ all right then – _that_ we can fix with a bit of practice." The trainer was smiling widely as he leaned down to reward Redbeard, who had resumed his normal stance, with a tidbit. "Perfect! You know, I think we just might have him – _both_ of you – ready after all, going by what I just saw."

Mycroft tried not to stiffen with displeasure when Carraclough clapped an approving hand on his shoulder. Behind them, Sherlock was red with speechless indignation.

"I don't mind telling you, Mike, I was worried…I really thought you'd bitten off more than you could chew," the trainer continued without noticing either brother's reaction. His eyes were still on Redbeard, who was now sitting up straight, panting genially. "I thought we'd get you both there in the end, but my experience was telling me it would take awhile – maybe a long while. I'm glad to be wrong, seeing that _this_ particular show is so important to you!"

Uneasily, Mycroft glanced at his little brother. Sherlock's spluttering ceased as his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Well, well…that's fine, just fine," Carraclough enthused. "Now you've one class under your belt the next one shouldn't be so intimidating, yes? Keep practicing between times…you're well on your way." Suddenly he laughed. "Oh, and put on some comfortable togs next time, yeah? I appreciate you wanting to do everything right, but you're not required to dress like a prig in practice! Just wear what you normally would of a summer's day, that should make you feel more comfortable."

Mycroft, whose most casual clothes were still far smarter than what his fellow junior handlers had been wearing today, forced a smile and a "yes sir" as the trainer patted his shoulder again before reaching to scratch Redbeard's neck and striding off, giving Sherlock's newly shorn curls a quick tousle as he passed.

Huffing out an exasperated breath, Mycroft bent his head and closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he looked up, he found Sherlock standing directly in front of him, hands on his hips. "I've made a deduction."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Oh yes?"

"I've made a deduction about your sudden wish to show _my_ dog," Sherlock informed him coolly.

Mycroft sighed. "For the tenth time, idiot _child_ , it's _in_ duction, not _de_ duction."

Sherlock glowered. " _De_ duction," he said mutinously.

" _Fine."_ Mycroft rolled his eyes. He began walking towards the car park.

Sherlock trotted until he was several steps ahead, Redbeard gamboling at his side, then spun round, walking backwards so that he faced his brother. "So…my _deduction,"_ he began.

 _Induction_ , Mycroft thought, but didn't say. "And what do you think you've _deduced_?" he said aloud in the superior, patronizing tone he knew Sherlock hated.

"That there's someone at that show you want to impress."

Mycroft almost missed a step, but recovered in time. Affecting an attitude of utter boredom, he asked, "And just _whom_ do you think _I_ would want to impress?"

Still walking backwards, Sherlock screwed his face up in thought. "Not another student from that pretentious school, obviously. They're all stupid."

Mycroft couldn't help grinning at that – an affectionate grin this time. "That they are."

Sherlock grinned back in a rare moment of solidarity, then reassumed his determined face and continued. "And it can't be a teacher, because none of your teachers are going to be there – not officially. I checked."

That erased Mycroft's grin, and he abruptly stopped walking. "You interfering little–"

"If it's someone _you_ want to impress, then it must be one of the show officials...and who's going to be off… _officiating_ at a charity show?" Sherlock stopped walking and began turning in a slow circle instead as he tried to work it out. Mycroft eyed him uneasily; Redbeard sat down in the grass and watched him admiringly.

"Think, _think_! You don't care about impressing your classmates or teachers, or wouldn't unless one of them could do something for you," the small boy muttered, raising his fingertips to his temples as he slowly turned on the spot. "The officials are mostly volunteers from dog clubs like this one, or local breeders…people who give regularly to Macmillan Cancer Support, and… _oh_!" he cried suddenly, his hands flying out and away as his head jerked up, his face alight with discovery.

"Sherlock–"

"Sir Westward from the Home Office is going to be doing the judging, and _that's_ why you want to compete!" Sherlock crowed. He jumped once in place, then turned over in a cartwheel, setting Redbeard barking and capering about him in excitement.

"Youuuuu want to impress Geoffrey Weeeeestwaard!" Sherlock sang. "Admit it! Admit it! Admit it!"

" _Will_ you shut _up?!"_ Mycroft hissed, glancing anxiously over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening.

"Admit it, admit it, admit it!" Sherlock sang loudly, dancing nimbly out of reach as Mycroft tried to grab him, far more agile than his big brother could ever hope to be. " _Yoooouuu_ want to impress Sir Geoffrey! _Yoooouuu_ want to work for the government! _Yoooooooouuu_ want to be KING of Englaaaaaand!"

Mycroft finally lost his patience.

" _Fine_!" he shouted. "I need referees from at least ten years prior to application before I can even _think_ of going into Intelligence, and one from a Home Office official will be an enormous help, what of it?!"

Sherlock stilled at once. "I _knew_ it had to be something like that," he said smugly. "Kiss-arse!"

He followed this up by making rude kissy noises in the air; thinking Sherlock was calling to him, Redbeard began to bark excitedly.

Mycroft glared. "I'm telling Mummy you said 'arse'."

" _You_ just said it!"

 _Bugger_. Mycroft ground his teeth. Only his maddening baby brother had the ability to make him slip up like that.

"Mike!" Carraclough called from across the ring, holding a packet up. "You forgot your junior handling pamphlet!"

Straightening up to his full height, Mycroft leveled his iciest look – the one that made his housemates give him a wide berth – at the infuriating brat (who, regrettably, was not in the least perturbed by it).

"If you tell anyone, I'll dangle you by your ankles out of your bedroom window," he threatened. " _And_ destroy your collection of human and animal hair samples." Spinning round, he angrily stomped with as much dignity as he could muster across the ring towards the registration table where the trainer waited with his packet.

At least, he tried – halfway there his left foot skidded suddenly, almost sending him sprawling to the grass. A foul smell assaulted his nostrils, and, raising his foot, he stared at the sole of his left dress shoe in disbelief.

It was coated with dog feces.

Carraclough, watching, barked a good-natured laugh. " _There_ you are…you've been officially initiated, lad. Life with dogs _will_ lead to the occasional tip-toe through the tulips!"

Mycroft looked up and saw the demon child his parents were pleased to call his little brother now standing on his head and grinning at him with happy malice. His grin grew wider when Mycroft's eyes met his.

"Oopsie! Sherlock observed cheerfully.

* * *

*Just for fun, I named the trainer after the character who bred and trained the titular collie in the children's book, _Lassie Come-Home_ by Eric Knight.

**Trotting a dog in formation in the show ring at a proper speed and formation so there is no drag on the lead to enable the judge to evaluate how the animal moves.

 _Many, many thanks to englishtutor and Wynsom, both for the time they took to look this chapter over for me and their endless encouragement!_


	3. A Deal of Sorts

"Rough day, was it, son?" Mr. Holmes was sympathetic as he addressed Mycroft that evening over tea.

The muscles in Mycroft's face twitched, wanting to reform themselves into a childish scowl. He pressed his lips together and stared down at his plate with as little expression as he could manage, pushing his potatoes around with his fork. From the corner of his eye, he shot a quick glance at Redbeard, who was slumped over the threshold between the kitchen and the hallway, fast asleep and snoring loudly. Every so often his long, tangled red limbs twitched as though he were chasing squirrels in his dreams.

"Even _I_ can 'deduce' from time to time," Mr. Holmes went on jokingly, "and I know my eldest has had a bad day indeed when he can't enjoy his meals!"

Mycroft knew his father was only attempting to make him smile, but the urge to say something rude was still so difficult to resist that he had to bite his tongue – _hard_ – to keep from doing so.

Hugely proud of his wife and sons, Mr. Holmes often good-naturedly declared himself "the moron of the family," and his family never disputed this. Indeed, Mummy would occasionally talk to her husband as though he were no older than Sherlock. But she also loved him dearly, and both boys knew from experience that "giving their father cheek," as she put it, would never be tolerated.

A day would come when Mycroft Holmes – brilliant, educated, and accomplished – would appreciate his father's tender humor and recognize and honor his gentle, down-to-earth wisdom – a wisdom that far surpassed his wife's and sons' keen intelligence. But however brilliant he might be, Mycroft still was only fourteen years old, and so today was not that day.

He kept his mouth shut and stubbornly refused to look up.

"He was absolutely _awful_ ," Sherlock observed happily from his chair opposite Mycroft's. His feet swung energetically back and forth beneath the table as he busily squished his peas into an unappetizing ooze with the back of his fork.

"Sherlock Holmes, sit up at once and _stop kicking_ , that chair has enough heel-marks on the rungs as it is, thanks to you," their mother scolded. "And if I have to tell you one more time tonight to stop playing with your food and _eat_ it, you can say goodbye to your microscope for an entire month!"

Sherlock gave his mother a wide-eyed look. _A month!_ Wilting slightly under her stern expression, he sulkily stilled his legs, straightened in his chair, and shoveled an enormous forkful of peas into his mouth.

" _Smaller_ bites, love, honestly." Mrs. Holmes was exasperated. "There's no point in having it come straight back up again!"

Huffing a long-suffering sigh dramatic enough to win him a BAFTA, Sherlock scooped up a slightly smaller mouthful of potatoes, rolling his eyes with a look that said, _clearly it's impossible to please the woman._

Mycroft smirked at his brother from across the table. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock glanced surreptitiously to ensure Mummy was no longer focused on him, then presented his elder brother with a view of his open mouth, filled with a disgusting mixture of half-chewed peas and potatoes. His smug expression returned when Mycroft, revolted, looked away.

"And there's no need to tease your brother," Mummy went on sternly, passing the serving bowl filled with potatoes to her husband. "He's never done this sort of thing before. I know you two are used to being good at everything you try first time out, but – well, Mike, sports may not be your thing, but you're not used to having to practice at _anything_. Most people do, you know."

Goaded, Mycroft said hotly, "It wasn't _me_ who was awful, it was _Redbeard_. The other dogs managed in the end, but he was just too _stupid_. It must be the breed…I've read Irish Setters can be over-bred and dull-witted–"

"He's not _stupid_ , he's clever," Sherlock said coolly. He helped himself to a slice of buttered bread and sat back in his chair. "He just isn't interested in listening to _you._ Which _proves_ he's clever, come to that!"

At the end of his patience, Mycroft unexpectedly threw his fork down onto his plate with a clatter that made both his parents jump in shock, for he had never been given to outbursts of this nature. But he was frustrated, and Sherlock's remark had stung.

Across the table, his little brother (who had _not_ jumped) sat nibbling unconcernedly at his bread, secure in his ownership. His little brother who – Mycroft didn't care _what_ Daddy said – had got Redbeard into a state this morning on purpose so that Mycroft would be late to his first handling class.

Mycroft's feet hurt from the long walk to the Village Hall in his new shoes. He was exhausted, and still feeling sticky from the unaccustomed exercise in the heat even though he had washed before dinner. His suit would need to be dry-cleaned and his new shoes were ruined. He'd spent his afternoon feeling embarrassed and incompetent and out of place amongst a group of young people who, while hopelessly inferior to him intellectually, seemed to have no trouble coping with the task they were being asked to take on by that insufferable trainer, or with relating to one another in a natural, unrestrained way – something Mycroft had struggled with ever since he had begun formal schooling.

And now his wretched, _spoiled_ _brat_ of a little brother, with his careless, thoughtless remark, had gone and taunted Mycroft with the thing that had bothered him most.

Redbeard _wasn't_ stupid, and Mycroft knew it. Despite his lack of training, the Irish Setter had been smarter than every dog there today. He'd understood full well what Mycroft was asking of him. He hadn't done it simply because it had been _Mycroft_ doing the asking. As soon as _Sherlock_ had asked it of him, however…

Mycroft hadn't chosen a puppy as a reward for high marks* because he had been the kind boy who had always wanted a puppy. At the age of ten, he had become interested in the history of the Kennel Club and the time-honored tradition of dog showing, and he had wanted a purebred dog of his own so that he could become a part of that tradition. But when he'd held his hand out to the lanky, three-month-old red setter pup at Knightscroft Kennels, he'd felt an unfamiliar yearning in his own breast as it had trotted towards him agreeably.

There had been something about the beast that had drawn him, some sense of a quality of spirit that went beyond its attractive exterior – the pretty face with its comically long ears, the funny, roly-poly body that was already beginning to slim, and the fat paws it still didn't seem to _quite_ know what to do with. _This_ puppy was different from its litter-mates, who were busily yipping and nipping and crawling over one another to reach Mycroft and his parents. _This_ puppy was friendly and spirited, but more contained than the others. _And_ more intelligent – Mycroft could see it in the animal's eyes. On the drive home, he had taken it from its box to hold in his lap – the only time in his life he had ever reached out to any living thing apart from his own family.

Then they had arrived at the cottage, the puppy had taken one look at Sherlock, and the first stirrings of good comradeship Mycroft had ever felt were swept away.

Up to this point, Sherlock had shown himself to be every bit as inept at making friends as Mycroft, but now he showed that apparently he _could_ do something Mycroft could not: he could inspire love and devotion in the heart of another. At least, he could inspire it in the heart of this one dog.

It was almost worse than if Redbeard had rejected Mycroft outright, but he hadn't. The dog showed that he liked Mycroft well enough – no more and no less than Mummy and Daddy – but, so far as Redbeard was concerned, Sherlock was the center of his universe. The sting of that rejection had taken a long time to fade, and the rapidity with which it flared up now made him wonder if it ever fully had.

" _Mycroft_ ," Mummy said reprovingly, "there's no need to–"'

But for once Mycroft paid her no heed.

"I want to borrow your precious beast – which wouldn't even _be_ here if it weren't for me, I'll remind you – for one afternoon, Sherlock," he said through gritted teeth, eyes fixed on his little brother. " _One_. Why does it bother you so much?"

All at once, Sherlock dropped the pretense of nonchalance along with his bread and butter.

"Because he's _mine_!"

The righteous anger on Sherlock's face – the fierce light of possession in his eyes – suddenly Mycroft was furious. But where Sherlock grew fiery when he was angriest, Mycroft grew cold. He could feel the coldness filling his chest.

"Actually, he's _mine_ ," Mycroft said icily, " _if_ you want to get technical about it."

"That will do, Mycroft Holmes," Mummy cut in sharply.

"You're a liar," Sherlock said fiercely. "Redbeard's _always_ been mine."

"Of course he has." Daddy looked worriedly at his youngest son before turning his eyes on his elder. "Now, Mike, you've had a difficult day–"

But Mycroft, his voice rising uncharacteristically, cut him off.

"Think you know everything, do you?" he sneered. "On paper he's _mine_ , Sherlock, not yours! Just ask Mummy and Daddy!"

Sherlock's knuckles were white around his knife and fork. His small face screwed itself up in anger and began to redden.

"Don't be idiotic," the child snapped, his voice rising in turn. "You _know_ he's mine… _everyone_ knows Redbeard's _my_ dog!"

Mycroft laughed coldly.

"It's _my_ name on his ownership papers, Sherlock. Go on, ask Mummy and Daddy if you don't believe me! They can show them to you if you like."

That shut Sherlock up. Then, white and stricken, he said in a much smaller voice, "That…that's not true. He's _mine_. You _know_ he's mine."

He looked first to his mother, than his father.

"It isn't true, is it, Mummy? Daddy, he's fibbing, isn't he?"

Mr. Holmes, struggling to be truthful, cleared his throat. "Well, er… _technically_ , son, I suppose…but of _course_ Redbeard's your dog, we all know that. But, so far as what his _papers_ actually say, well…"

Sherlock dropped his knife and fork with a clatter. Redbeard jerked awake at the sound and sat up. Looking at Sherlock he whined softly, but he knew better than to approach the table at mealtimes.

Irritated anew at this latest show of the dog's devotion and, seeing the stunned disbelief on his brother's face, Mycroft snapped, "There! You see? I can do anything I like with Redbeard…show him…even _sell_ him if I wanted to."

" _Mycroft!"_ Mummy cried.

She didn't need to tell him he'd gone too far – Mycroft's anger evaporated when he saw the flash of fear that crossed Sherlock's face just before the boy shoved his chair violently from the table and fled the kitchen, a whimpering Redbeard close at his heels. The guilt that churned in his stomach was worse than Mummy's vigorous scolding.

But worse still was his father's sad, disappointed tone.

"Badly done, son."

* * *

Sherlock joined the family in the sitting room as usual after the evening meal was cleared away, composed but clearly still preoccupied – instead of reading or working a puzzle or one of his other usual activities, he lay on his back on the floor, bum and legs stuck straight up against the wall. Observing him thus surreptitiously, Mycroft thought absently that if one were to snap a photograph of him in that position and gave it a single clockwise turn, Sherlock would appear to be sitting on the floor with his back against a wall and his legs outstretched on the floor before him. Only the presence of Redbeard, pressed close against the boy's side and gnawing happily on a large, rawhide bone, would have spoiled the illusion.

"Feet off the wall, Sherlock, please," Mummy said from behind her book. She was seated in her pet easy chair next the fireplace, absorbed in a novel. Daddy's own battered wingback chair across from hers was unoccupied – he'd muttered vaguely about something he had to do in the shed.

Sherlock ignored her, continuing to drum his socked feet lightly against the wall.

" _Sherlock."_

"Yes, all right." With a deep, melodramatic sigh, Sherlock pushed off with his feet. Redbeard seized his bone and scrambled out of the way as the boy did a full reverse somersault in slow motion, landing gently face down on the floor, arms at his sides.

"Mummy, I'm _boooored_." Sherlock's moan was muffled by the rug.

"Well, that _is_ a shame," Mummy said mildly, eyes still on her book. "I can find you something to do, if you like."

The tone was perfectly pleasant, the threat crystal-clear: Sherlock froze for about eight-point-two seconds – long enough, Mycroft judged, for the child to contemplate a host of possible diversions their mother might suggest (which would certainly include such activities as collecting dirty laundry from the bedroom floor and clearing the bathroom vanity of half-finished experiments). Reluctantly, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Not so very bored," he muttered with an ill grace.

Mycroft glanced sidelong at Mummy. She still hadn't looked up from her book, but he noticed a very slight smile now curling the corner of her lips. Mycroft smirked.

His smirk fell from his face at her next words, however.

"Why don't you see if your brother will play chess with you?"

Mycroft's jaw clenched even as Sherlock's own lips tightened. Both boys knew this was not a suggestion. Mummy loved what she described as chess's "elegant logic;" she played it with her sons, and urged them to play together, as often as possible, declaring that the game would facilitate their mathematical and problem-solving skills and encourage them to think cognitively.

Mycroft knew that she also thought playing chess would bring him and his brother closer together – he'd overheard her talking to Daddy about it. In that same spirit, he supposed she was likely hoping a friendly game on this particular evening would facilitate some sort of truce between the brothers after their bust-up at dinner.

Mycroft sniffed. Though he respected his mother very much, he sometimes thought she was even more ignorant concerning human nature than he was himself.

If Mummy hoped to soothe Sherlock's poorly hidden anxiety and foster a brotherly reconciliation through friendly competition, she would have done better to suggest a game of _Operation_. To his wife's disgust, Mr. Holmes had brought the childish pastime home last Christmas. _She_ preferred the boys be provided games that would challenge them intellectually, but her husband had replied amiably that life was more than intellect, and anyway, wasn't there an element of biology to the thing?

Mrs. Holmes had scoffed at this, but to her chagrin Sherlock had become inordinately fond of the game almost immediately. Mycroft supposed it was to be expected – he was the youngest, and the silly, cartoonish character, buzzing nose, and flashing light were all bound to appeal to his immaturity. Additionally (Mycroft admitted grudgingly to himself) it was the only board game the family possessed where Sherlock regularly defeated his elder brother, for _Operation_ was a game of physical skill – like their mother, Mycroft's abilities leaned decidedly towards the intellectual, while Sherlock had inherited their father's natural grace and superior dexterity (indeed, Daddy was the only one in the family who could provide Sherlock any real competition while playing _Operation_ ).

Not that his little brother was a bad chess player, Mycroft admitted to himself as he began clearing off the pedestal table to make room for the chess board, which Sherlock long-sufferingly brought over and began to set up. In fact, Sherlock was a _very_ advanced player – particularly for his age group. But Mycroft excelled at the game, and – unlike his father – he was not one to let his brother win on occasion. His mother supported him in this, believing firmly that one should always play every game to the best of one's abilities, and that, not only would a weaker player gain in skill through being shown no mercy, he would also experience greater satisfaction when he _did_ win a game.

Both theories appeared to be true – not only had Sherlock's chess skills advanced greatly over the last three years, but on the rare occasions that he did manage to catch his elder brother in a checkmate, his pride in himself was such that it even overrode Mycroft's annoyance at losing.

But it was also true that, about twenty percent of the time, Sherlock's chess games with Mycroft ended with the smaller boy storming away in tears of frustration. Mycroft had no doubt that tonight would be one of those nights. For the first time he seriously considered throwing the game, but in the end determined to play his best, as always.

It was a good thing, too, for he could never have pulled it off convincingly – Sherlock brought his preoccupation to the chess table with him, and played so poorly Mycroft would have been hard put to lose however hard he tried. Sherlock, however, did not seem to mind – in fact, he barely seemed even to notice. Part of the reason he lost to Mycroft as often as he did was because, when was plotting a scheme on the board, it showed on his face. Sherlock's eyes would dance while he waited for his brother to fall into his trap, as though he could barely keep his cleverness inside. Tonight, however, Mycroft had to point it out to him when he had checkmated him for the third time in a row. Sherlock had simply nodded and, with an air of relief, begun packing the chess board way. Then, to his elder brother's astonishment, the notoriously anti-sleep child had meekly bidden him and their mother a perfunctory good-night (Daddy had still not returned from the shed) and retired to his bedroom, Redbeard accompanying him.

As Mycroft watched boy and dog ascend the stairs together, he noticed that Sherlock was, almost unconsciously, lightly gripping Redbeard's left ear in his right hand – something he had not done since he had been a toddler, when that same left ear had stood in for a security blanket when Sherlock was feeling frightened, worried, or in need of comfort. Suspecting this had to do with his angry revelation at the kitchen table, Mycroft again felt an unwilling stab of remorse.

* * *

The remorse was still with him when he went up to bed himself over an hour later.

It was Mycroft's habit to read for half an hour before putting out the light, but the persistent image of his little brother's face kept intruding as he attempted to concentrate on his book.

He had just finished reading the same sentence over for the fourth time when there was a quiet knock at the door – his father, definitely. Mummy's rap was always a brisk three quick knocks, while Sherlock rarely remembered to knock at all before entering Mycroft's room (though this usually resulted in his elder brother throwing a pillow at him).

Sighing, Mycroft sat up. "Come in, Father."

Mr. Holmes stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Smiling, he drew his left hand from behind his back to show Mycroft his dress shoes, now shiny and new-looking again. "See, Mike? Not ruined – they just needed a cleaning and a good polish."

 _So that was what he was doing in the shed all evening,_ Mycroft thought. His heart warmed slightly. "Thank you, Daddy."

Mr. Holmes set the shoes down on the floor in front of the desk. "I'll just leave them here, but you make sure you put them away before your mother sees them out. We'll get some stretchers in them tomorrow." He came to sit on the foot of Mycroft's bed.

"What are you reading?"

"The first three books of Euclid's _Elements_ , translated by Taliaferro."

Accepting the book his son handed him, Mr. Holmes turned it over and opened it to a random page, taking care not to lose Mycroft's place. He uttered an admiring whistle. "Lucky you take after your mother in the brains department, son. Ken Follett is more my speed!"

Father and son both chuckled as he returned the book to Mycroft.

His smile fading, Mr. Holmes studied Mycroft for so long his son had to resist the urge to squirm, suspecting a lecture was coming. But when his father finally spoke, he surprised him.

"You know, Mikey…your brother idolizes you."

Mycroft scoffed. "Oh, Father, _really_ –"

"No, I mean it. He thinks that whatever you do is about right. That's a big responsibility, you know." Daddy paused. "You'd do well to keep that in mind."

Mycroft looked down, running his thumb along the loose spine of his book. "I know I – I shouldn't have told him about Redbeard, not like that," he said finally in a low voice, still not looking at his father. "It was…a difficult day. I was angry, and…"

His voice trailed away, but Mr. Holmes harrumphed in an understanding sort of way and offered him a knowing nod.

"I know your little brother can be an affliction to you…believe me, I do. Many's the time I wanted to break your Uncle Rudy in two when we were boys–"

Mycroft laughed outright at this. Mr. Holmes gave him one of his sudden smiles, the kind that lit up his entire face, momentarily erasing years from it. "Wouldn't know it to look at him now, but the stuff he got up to…he could have given Sherlock a run for his money!"

"I find that hard to believe," Mycroft said drily.

"Well, believe it…I was there, and I know!" Smile fading a bit, Mr. Holmes said hesitantly, "Mycroft…I know you probably hate to be reminded of this, but Sherlock's a lot littler than you…"

Mycroft sighed. This was more what he had been expecting, but he knew his father was right. "I know, Daddy. I'll–" he grimaced. "Tomorrow I'll make it up with him. I promise."

"Good lad." His father stood up.

Mycroft could tell by the way his father was hesitating, though, that there was more he wanted to say. Finally he forged ahead – and what he _did_ say was the last thing Mycroft expected.

"I think I have a pretty good idea as to why you're _really_ doing this, Mike."

Mycroft stared. "You…you…" he stammered.

Mr. Holmes had the good grace not to smile – indeed, he looked rather serious.

"You want to impress someone important, is that it? Someone you believe can help you with your future career?"

Mycroft was at a loss. At first he wanted to deny this, but then his father's kind, sympathetic expression made him change his mind. "Does Mummy know?" he asked finally.

He knew the answer to that already, though…if Mummy _had_ known, she would have been impatient and, like as not, forbidden Mycroft to go ahead with his plan to take part in the show. It amazed him, though, that Daddy should have figured it out when Mummy had not.

"She doesn't," Mr. Holmes confirmed. His lips quirked a rueful-yet-fond smile. "Your mother's brilliant, but – between ourselves – not _quite_ so quick to spot this sort of thing."

"You did, though," Mycroft pointed out.

"I know my boy," Mr. Holmes said simply.

There was an odd, unfamiliar thick feeling at the back of Mycroft's throat – the kind that only his father (and, even more occasionally, his little brother) could cause him to experience. "Daddy–"

"Mike, I'm not going to forbid you to do it," his father cut in quickly. "But I have to say I don't much care for the idea of you doing something to…well, simply to impress someone else."

Slightly embarrassed, Mycroft looked down at the book in his hands and began fiddling with its spine again. "I – I _have_ been interested in dog showing for a long time," he offered half-heartedly.

"I know. And that's the only reason I'm going to allow you to try it now."

Surprised by his father's calm tone of authority, Mycroft looked up.

Many people believed kindly, easygoing Mr. Holmes to be hopelessly henpecked, and Mycroft too-frequently made the mistake of believing this as well. Occasionally, though, his father would say or do something (and never in an overbearing or domineering manner) that would remind his eldest son that, when it was important to him, he would not be walked over. It was times like these, Mycroft was coming to realize, that showed his father was _not_ a harassed individual at the mercy of his wife and sons, but a contented man living _exactly_ the life he wanted – and that, while he enjoyed indulging his family, that indulgence would never extend to something he believed would be harmful to them. The fact that he was speaking so firmly now showed Mycroft how serious his father was about this.

Daddy nodded solemnly, as though he somehow had divined Mycroft's thoughts.

"Yes…I'll allow you to go on with this, seeing that you _have_ been interested in showing. That's why we bought Redbeard in the first place, after all. But Mike…I don't want to see you making a habit of doing things you don't like to impress _people_ you don't like. You're a brilliant young man, and you're going to go far…there's no need for you to go trying to change yourself – not for other people, anyway. Besides…"

He paused a moment, considering. Mycroft waited.

Daddy cleared his throat. "You're grand as you are."

The words, the tone, and the earnest way his father was looking at him made it hard for Mycroft to speak for more than a minute. When he was sure his voice wouldn't waver, he said lowly, "All right, Daddy."

Mr. Holmes smiled. "That's all right, then."

He laid his hand briefly on Mycroft's knee and gave it a quick squeeze. "Good night, son."

He was pulling the door shut behind him when Mycroft thought of something else to say. It wasn't _exactly_ what was in his heart, but it would have to do.

"Daddy…thank you again for cleaning my shoes."

Mr. Holmes paused. "You're welcome." He closed the door softly.

Mycroft knew by his warm smile that the man understood what his son had been too shy to say.

* * *

He hadn't been asleep more than an hour at most when he was awakened by the sound of his bedroom door creaking open, and a light from the hallway falling across the floor.

Mycroft switched his bedside table lamp and raised himself up on one elbow, squinting at the small figure standing just inside his bedroom door. "Sherlock?"

The seven-year-old's striped pajamas were rumpled and his curls tousled, but he looked wide-awake – more so than Redbeard, in fact, who stood blinking sleepily beside him. Sherlock was barefoot, and for some reason Mycroft found himself noticing the child's bony white ankles showing below too-short pajama trousers.

 _Those fit him fine when he got them new at Christmas,_ Mycroft thought vaguely _. He must have had a growth spurt…._

He glanced at his alarm clock and sat all the way up, rubbing his eyes with an irritated sigh. "Sherlock, it's nearly _midnight_ …and I've told you _repeatedly_ about coming in here without knocking–"

But Sherlock spoke without preamble as though he hadn't heard a word Mycroft said.

"I can make him behave for you."

Mycroft lowered his hands from his eyes and gaped at his small brother. "You – _what_? Who?"

"Redbeard."

Beside Sherlock, the setter's ears pricked as he peered up into his little master's face.

"I can make him do what you want him to in the ring," Sherlock clarified, his small white face intense.

Mycroft's hands dropped into his lap. He was completely at a loss.

"And just _how_ would you get him to do that?" he asked finally.

"He'll do it if I tell him to," Sherlock said, not boasting at all this time – he said it simply, as a matter of fact.

 _And it probably_ is _a fact_ , Mycroft thought, the old envy rising again slightly.

Aloud he said, "All right, then… _why_ would you?"

Sherlock just stared at him silently.

"Well? Out with it!" Mycroft said sharply, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "You must want _something_ in exchange for–"

"Redbeard."

The dog, who had sunk down onto his belly, scrambled up again at the sound of his name, staring into Sherlock's face and whimpering. Mycroft also thought at first that the boy was addressing the dog, but then he realized Sherlock still was looking at _him_.

"You want–?"

"I want _Redbeard_ ," Sherlock insisted, his little chin raised. "I mean, I – I want you to sign Redbeard's papers over to me. I want him to belong to _me_."

He paused, thinking, then added, " _Only_ to me."

Mycroft stared at the small, determined figure of his baby brother, a number of conflicting emotions rising in his breast: a mixture of hurt ( _does he_ really _think I would try to sell his infernal dog?_ ), irritation ( _I_ knew _he could help me if he really wanted to!_ ) and guilt ( _I must have frightened him_ very _badly, indeed_ ).

Gazing at Sherlock's pale, set face, something in Mycroft's chest expanded, and his first urge was to tell him he would be more than happy to sign Redbeard's ownership papers over to him – at once, no strings attached.

But then a second urge – a product of the ruthless ambition his father sometimes warned him against – whispered in his brain.

 _He can be a pest just for the fun of it…so, if making a deal with him will get him to toe the mark, why not take him up on it?  
_

Another voice - one that sounded like his father's - spoke up then, gently suggesting to Mycroft that if he were to go with his first instinct – the instinct of his better nature – and give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt, the boy might just respond in kind by agreeing to help him with Redbeard without conditions.

But then that ambitious part of himself made Mycroft remember Sir Geoffrey, and what all was at stake, and he squelched the promptings of his more generous side.

"All right," he agreed at last. "It's a deal – you get Redbeard to behave like he's supposed to in the ring, and after it's all over I'll transfer his ownership to you officially."

Sherlock nodded once, then turned and left without another word – _and_ without closing the door behind him, Mycroft noted with irritation.

For a moment he continued to sit up, hugging his knees through the blanket and struggling with the guilty feeling that this was _not_ how Mummy or Daddy would preferred him to handle the situation. But he consoled himself with the notion that, regardless of how things went, he would give Sherlock what he wanted, and make up for frightening him later.

A snuffling noise make him look up, and he saw Redbeard lingering on the threshold, sniffing the air with great interest.

Mycroft glared at him. "What do _you_ want? Not going to be sick again on _my_ rug, I hope?"

Redbeard, his plumy tail waving slowly, ignored this as he looked keenly around the bedroom. Then he spotted Mycroft's dress shoes, and his golden brown eyes gleamed as he went on point.

Suddenly Mycroft remembered exactly _why_ Mummy was so adamant that the family put their shoes away immediately upon removing them: for some unfathomable reason known only to himself, shoes had fascinated Redbeard since puppyhood. Though normally a very well-behaved dog who wilted into a scarlet puddle of remorse when scolded, he could never seem to resist attacking any footwear he came across that was not already on a person's feet. (In fact, he sometimes lost control and attacked footwear while it _was_ being worn, which occasionally made for some awkward moments with guests.)

Alarmed, Mycroft straightened hurriedly. "No! Wait–"

" _RRRRrrrrowwwwrrr_!" Redbeard pounced, seized Mycroft's left dress shoe, and began shaking it vigorously back and forth as though it were a rat, a mock-growl rumbling in his chest. There was a muffled _pop_ as his strong white teeth punctured the toe box.

With a weary sigh and a dismal groan, Mycroft closed his eyes and flopped backwards onto the mattress.

* * *

*See the prologue to my story, _An Innocent Man_.

Many thanks to englishtutor for her proofreading skills! I do appreciate it. :-)


	4. The Big Day

Mycroft sputtered as Redbeard's plumy tail hit him in the face yet again. He should have been on his guard – it had happened twice already – but his nervousness kept causing his attention to wander.

Across from him on the backseat, Sherlock sniggered.

It was all very well for _him_ , Mycroft thought resentfully, shooting his small brother a withering look out of the corner of his left eye. _He_ had Redbeard's front half balanced on his lap, and was sitting contentedly with his arms wrapped round his pet's chest and shoulders. _Mycroft_ , however, had the dog's hindquarters planted squarely on his own lap, putting him at risk of a mouthful of fur whenever an interesting scent on the breeze elicited yet another happy tail-wag.

It was the morning of the show. Mr. Holmes (who was hopeless with directions) sat next to Mrs. Holmes, holding the map at the ready while she drove. Mycroft, with his longer legs, sat behind Mummy, while Sherlock sat behind Daddy. The car was small, but with this arrangement not uncomfortable – at least, it wasn't when it was just the four of them.

The inclusion of Redbeard made things rather problematic. As they had puzzled over how to arrange themselves prior to piling in, Daddy had remarked ruefully that it must have been longer than he'd thought since the last time the entire family plus Redbeard had taken a car journey together, because he didn't remember it being quite so cramped.

Clearly Redbeard could not sit up front with Mummy and Daddy, but the rear seat wasn't much better. Gone were the days when the dog could settle comfortably between the boys – Sherlock was no longer a toddler, Mycroft was now a long-legged teenager, and Redbeard himself was in his mid-prime. Twenty-seven-and-a-half inches tall at the shoulder and a full seventy-five pounds, his only recourse was to lie lengthwise across the laps of both boys. He didn't mind this in the least, for Sherlock had rolled down the window on his side so the setter could ride with his head thrust through it, his long ears streaming in the wind, his pink tongue lolling sideways out of jaws split wide in the charmingly witless grin common to every canine that has ever ridden shotgun.

Mycroft kept his own window firmly closed, wanting to remain as tidy as possible. It was no easy task – he looked down mournfully at his smart trousers, which were now decorated with long red hairs. He had been tempted to suggest that _he_ navigate for Mummy while Daddy sat in back with Redbeard and Sherlock – after all, _he_ was the one who had to wear a suit today – but, perceiving that his mother would not take kindly to the suggestion, he had deemed it wiser to hold his tongue.

Mummy was already cross because Sherlock (who, it transpired, had been up most of the night reading by torch light under the duvet) had been particularly difficult to rouse this morning, putting them all behind schedule. Her mood had further soured when Mycroft objected to Redbeard being allowed to put his head out the window on the grounds that it would muss the animal's freshly groomed coat (an objection that had recalled the professional groomer's sizeable bill to her mind).

Ever the peacemaker, Mr. Holmes had smoothed things over by pointing out that it was only Redbeard's head that was in danger of becoming a bit windblown, and that, once they arrived at the grounds and got the grooming kit out of the boot, they could put him right straight away. This would more than pay for the extra room that would be afforded to the occupants of the backseat, Daddy reasoned, and keep Redbeard calm and happy into the bargain.

Wisely, Mycroft dropped the subject, and when the breeze snatched a drop of drool from Redbeard's lolling tongue and deposited it squarely in Sherlock's left eye, he thought perhaps his own position was not _quite_ so objectionable, after all (though he was still thankful he had the foresight to slip his lint brush into the boot along with the dog-grooming kit).

In any case, he was far too nervous to dwell over the situation.

Turning away from his annoying brother to look out his own window, Mycroft tried to steady his nerves by focusing on what had gone right – and, surprisingly, quite a lot _had_ gone right.

Firstly – it wasn't raining. It had been an uncommonly rainy summer thus far, and Scarborough (where the show was to be held) had received a record seventeen inches in the days leading up to the event. More had been forecast for the day of the show itself, and Mycroft, who had been following the weather reports closely, had nearly despaired, certain the event would be called off and all his effort and trouble would have been in vain. But on Wednesday the rain finally stopped, the weather pattern shifted, and the day broke to a blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds that did nothing to block the sunshine, and a soft breeze that would keep him from sweating in his smartest suit.

Secondly – he had a new pair of dress shoes. Mummy initially had declared that Mycroft must make do with his older ones…they would be perfectly presentable for a casual dog show once they'd been polished, she insisted, and anyway, it was Mycroft's own fault that the daft dog had destroyed his new ones – didn't she warn the boys over and over again that they must put their shoes away as soon as they took them off?

But in the end Daddy had managed to change her mind: Mycroft would need a new pair of shoes for school, anyway, and where was the harm in getting them a month or two early since their lad wasn't growing so fast anymore?

Thirdly – and this Mycroft regarded as hardly less than a miracle – Sherlock had kept his promise to make Redbeard obey Mycroft in the handling classes.

Mycroft had some excuse for being surprised. Sherlock's attention span was worse than Redbeard's had been in his puppyhood – at least, so far as it concerned something he wasn't interested in, and Mycroft more than half suspected that his young brother, already stroppy about the whole situation, would be difficult to keep on track.

He needn't have worried. The very morning after Sherlock had agreed to help him, Mycroft, hoping to look at least a _bit_ more competent at his next handling class, decided to test his brother's resolve by suggesting that the two of them adjourn to the back garden with Redbeard immediately following breakfast in order to practice. Instead of scowling down at his toast (which Mycroft had rather suspected he would), the seven-year-old had agreed so readily that Mummy had looked up from the maths journal she was perusing with surprise – and, perhaps, just a touch of a suspicion.

Mycroft had been a bit suspicious himself, but Sherlock had been in earnest. He was all business when he met Mycroft in the garden twenty minutes later, Redbeard at his heels, Mycroft's junior handling handbook from the Kennel Club in one hand, and a packet of dog tidbits for Redbeard in the other.

When they had reached the most open space on the grass, Sherlock had spun to face Mycroft and, pushing the handbook into his hands, had announced, "I memorized this stupid book last night. They want you to do three things with the dogs at the show: gait, hand stack, and free stack. You go sit over there," here Sherlock pointed imperiously to an ancient sycamore stump some little distance away, "and watch while I teach Redbeard to do it, and _you_ make sure he looks right."

" _I'm_ supposed to–"

"You _will_ ," Sherlock cut in impatiently. "But he'll only learn from _me_. _I'll_ teach him what to do so he knows what you want, then get him to do it when you ask him."

It was clear he meant the thing was to be done his way and, recognizing his own failure at his first class and acknowledging the limited timeframe, Mycroft had no recourse but to go along with it.

Any doubts the elder boy harbored were dispelled in the face of his young brother's zeal to become Redbeard's "real, true, _official_ owner." Under Sherlock's direction, and with Mycroft using what he'd learned in his own research to correct their form when needed, the setter (who really was quite intelligent) learned very rapidly to gait, stand, and stack for his young master, applying himself to the lessons with the same puzzled willingness with which, many years in the future, John Watson would respond to an adult Sherlock's request that he spend twenty-four hours immersing himself in the study of Chinese pottery*. By Mycroft's final class, no one looking at Redbeard being handled by Sherlock would believe that he was not a seasoned show animal.

He was less willing when it was Mycroft holding the lead, however, and in fact performed poorly and with obvious and sullen reluctance if Sherlock were not present. When Mycroft, feeling slighted, remarked on the dog's lagging disobedience, Sherlock insisted that it was _not_ disobedience at all.

"He just doesn't _like_ it," Sherlock explained. "He thinks it's stupid. He's quite right, too!"

Mycroft scoffed at this, but, once Sherlock said it, he couldn't help sort of seeing what the younger boy meant. In the beginning when his small brother put him through his paces, Redbeard's expressive face looked mystified; as the exercises were repeated to the point of familiarity he looked – there was no other word for it – _bored_.

At first Mycroft thought it was his imagination – that he was allowing Sherlock's childish tendency to anthropomorphize his pet influence his rationality. But then, at his fourth handling class, Sam Carraclough brought along his own dog – a stunning English Setter, still handsome despite his advanced years.

"There's a fellow who would have been a grand champion had he not despised the show ring so much," Sam had said, watching his dog exchanging greetings with Redbeard with a mixture of admiration and regret.

The boy with the wiggly Golden Retriever had looked up. "What do mean Mr. Carra– er, I mean, Sam?"

"I mean that if you keep up with the dogs, you'll find there are three types," the trainer replied. "Some that like showing because they like to please their handlers, some that look good and know it and want to show off – they're usually pretty intelligent – and then there are a few that are too smart for their own good and think the whole thing is a pointless, bloody bore. Bob over there is one of those," he admitted with a rueful grin, jerking his head towards this dog.

So, Mycroft suspected, was Redbeard. He did well enough during the gaiting (perhaps because he was at least moving then), but was rather wooden during the standing and hand stacking – he did it correctly, but his natural spark was missing, and it showed…no judge seeing his dull, faraway expression would guess at the alert mind and noble spirit underneath the superb red coat.

Carraclough was sympathetic. He had been hugely impressed with Mycroft's and Redbeard's rapid progress (not knowing about Sherlock's involvement, and assuming the obviously bored little boy's presence at the classes was upon the insistence of Mycroft's parents), but he had also noticed that Redbeard appeared to have no heart for the exercises.

"Never mind, Mike," he said bracingly. "There will be other shows and other dogs…you'll do well at this one. Remember, it's _you_ being judged at a Junior Showmanship Competition – not Redbeard. _He_ may not become a champion, but he knows his business and will be a credit to you…this will be good experience for you, and someday, maybe…"

But Mycroft wanted to make as good an impression as possible _now_ – at _this_ show. He had been worried this wouldn't happen, but then Carraclough informed them that it was perfectly acceptable to _bait_ a dog – that is, to hold a favorite toy or bit of food in its line of sight – while it was standing for the judge, in hopes of bringing life to its stance. It was usually best to have someone other than the handler do this during stacking, the trainer explained, lest the animal break the required position, and this became Sherlock's job. When his favorite person pursed his lips in a soft whistle and held a tidbit aloft, Redbeard's ears would prick up and his eyes brighten, and he resembled more the vibrant animal he truly was.

"That'll do," Carraclough said approvingly at the last handling class. "I'll be surprised if you don't 'place,' Mike, so long as you do it just like that at the show."

Remembering this now, Mycroft turned from the window abruptly to face Sherlock.

"Did you remember to bring something to bait him with?"

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "For the third time, _yes_. I brought his–"

"Ah! Here's the turn for Ayton Sports Association Sports Field, love," Mr. Holmes said suddenly. Mycroft leaned forward to peer through the window as Mrs. Holmes braked and made a careful right-hand turn. He spotted the sign at once:

 _SCARBOROUGH COMPANION DOG SHOW  
TO BENEFIT MACMILLAN CANCER SUPPORT_

* * *

The venue was dotted with dogs of all shapes, colors, and sizes – dogs of every breed imaginable, and many of unknown breed as well, for this was a companion show and not a Crufts qualifier. The atmosphere, while busy and bustling, was yet more relaxed than it would be at a championship show, but Mycroft still recognized representatives from nearly every well-known breeder in the county – many of them young people like Mycroft himself, taking advantage of the summer holidays to gain handling experience. He thought it very likely he would see other classmates in addition to Michael Bradley.

But it wasn't primarily a young people's event, despite the strong presence of that generation – there were plenty of adults in attendance as well; some amateur handlers, some professionals who were there to give their novice dogs experience in the ring. It showed, too – the noise from these nervous newcomers made up a perfect cacophony of barks and yaps that had the more experienced dogs looking at their uncouth brethren in contempt.

Though he was a novice, Mycroft was relieved to see that Redbeard did not behave like these edgy canines. He looked about with interest, head up, ears pricked, tail gently waving as he snuffed the air interestedly, but he didn't disgrace either himself or Mycroft by barking, drooling with excitement, cowering and piddling in fear, or pulling on his lead in an uncontrolled fashion.

Once the Holmes family had got their exhibitors pass and purchased a show schedule, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes headed back to the car park to fetch the remainder of Mycroft's show kit along with the hamper Mrs. Holmes had packed and a couple of folding chairs, leaving Mycroft at the registration table so he could complete the entry form and get their bench assignment. Sherlock, holding Redbeard on a slip lead, stayed with him.

"Dog's name and class," the ring steward said briskly once Mycroft had given him his own personal details.

"Tam O'Shanter of Knightscroft," Mycroft told her importantly, "sporting novice."

The steward, a rather thin woman in her fifties with iron grey curls and a rather frightening air of vigour, looked at Redbeard with interest. "One of the Knightscroft Kennel's red setters, eh? My, he _is_ a beauty."

She bent over the form again and quickly scribbled in Redbeard's name, the names of his breeders, and his date of birth, then looked up briefly. "Twelve to sixteen years junior handling class for all-breed pedigree dogs, open division, is it?"

"Yes."

The steward signed off on the form with a flourish and produced a wide band with a capital letter G printed on it, which she proceeded to fasten about Mycroft's upper left arm. "You're at ring four. Your assigned bench is nearby; I marked the number down on your pass. I'll see you at the ring at eleven on the dot – judging begins at half eleven sharp – _don't_ be late!"

She turned to the next entrant, and Mycroft, hastily tucking his entry packet and show schedule under his arm, quickly got out of the way. Once he was situated he looked up to see Sherlock scowling at him fiercely.

"Well, what is it _now_?"

"His name's _Redbeard_ ," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft gave him a withering look.

"His _call_ name, yes. His _registered_ name is Tam O'Shanter of Knightscroft, because he came from the Knightscroft Kennels."

Sherlock pouted.

"That's not even a _name_ , it's a stupid _hat_! I _hate_ stupid hats!"

" _Hush_ , Sherlock," Mummy said sternly from behind them. Both boys jumped guiltily; they hadn't noticed their parents' return. "Nearly all show dogs have registered names apart from their call names."

Sherlock lapsed into a sullen silence.

Daddy shifted the hamper under his arm and hoisted the folding chairs on his shoulder. "Come, boys," he said tactfully, "let's go find our bench."

* * *

Mycroft had been so thankful the weather had cleared that he had forgotten to consider the effect seventeen inches of rain would have on an outdoor show site.

The grounds were positively swampy, and by the time the family had reached their bench the backs of Mycroft's trousers were splattered with mud from his ankles to his knees. Mycroft surveyed his legs gloomily. They had passed a vendor selling rubber clogs and Wellies, but the man had already sold out of his complete stock.

"Never mind, son," Mr. Holmes said kindly as he unpacked Redbeard's kit while Mrs. Holmes began setting up the chairs. "Everyone's going to have a fair bit of mud on him today – even the judges!"

He extracted two towels from the kit, passed one to his eldest son, and, taking the lead from Mycroft's hand, knelt to wipe down Redbeard's feathered forelegs.

Looking round, Mycroft saw this was true. Shady canopies had been erected over the benches and rubber mats laid down, but the rings themselves appeared to be half under water. In the cordoned-off ring nearest their bench – Ring 4, where Mycroft would be showing Redbeard in just over two hours – an agility class was just finishing; even as he watched, the young man directing his border collie suddenly slipped and almost fell. At the far end of the ring was the judges' table; Mycroft spotted one of the judges trying to keep an eye on the action in the ring while surreptitiously trying to empty muddy water out of her shoe at the same time – she had evidently had the high-heeled shoe sucked off her foot by the sodden ground. Her sour expression matched perfectly Mycroft's thoughts regarding the situation.

 _I'll have to watch my step – literally._

Behind him, Mummy finished setting up the folding chairs and unpacked a stainless steel dog bowl. "Love, go fill this at that fountain we saw near the entrance," she said, handing it off to her younger son.

Sherlock, delighted to have an excuse to wander round and people-watch, and not minding the mucky ground in the least, splashed off noisily. With a _whuff_! Redbeard leapt away from Mr. Holmes to follow him.

Mummy grabbed him by the collar. "Oh, no, not _you_!" She rummaged in the large canvas hold-all for a moment, then pulled out a dog toy. "Here, let that keep you busy…Sherlock will be back straightaway."

Redbeard took the toy – a ball – and flopped down on his belly on the mat.

Mycroft barely heeded them. His eyes were locked on Ring 4, where the agility class had concluded and a new class was assembling. This was a more lighthearted one – "Dog with the Waggiest Tail," or some such rot – and Mycroft saw that the entrants were made up of boys and girls around Sherlock's age with their overexcited pets, many of which were clearly mixed breeds. He curled his lip at the silliness. _What an utter waste of time!_

All right, yes, it was a charity event, but did they really need to degrade the noble art of dog showing by–?

 _Squeak, squeak, squeak._

Wincing, Mycroft looked over his shoulder. The ball Redbeard was playing with wasn't just _any_ ball – it was his favorite toy, one he'd had from puppyhood. About the size of a cricket ball, it was a flexible, bright yellow thing made of a studded sort of rubber. These toys were no longer on the market as their flimsy exterior proved easy to tear, posing a safety risk a to puppies that might accidentally ingest the squeakers. The Holmes family had never worried about this with Redbeard, however, for he had never shown a desire to tear the thing to bits. What _he_ liked best to do with the ball was to take it into his mouth (which, characteristic of birding breeds, was capable of a supremely "soft" grip) and gently squeeze it between his jaws to make it squeak over and over – often to the point where he finally drove the family to distraction and one of them would either take it away from him or distract him with something else.

 _Squeak, squeak, squeak._

Mycroft especially found the sound supremely irritating, but since Redbeard never seemed to tire of this activity once he got started on it (the family generally ran out of patience with him first), he knew it would be an adequate distraction for the dog while Sherlock was out of his sight. With an annoyed huff, he turned back to the ring.

And then he forgot everything when he spotted Sir Geoffrey Westward himself striding up to the judges' table.

 _Squeak, squeak, squeak!_

Sir Geoffrey was not remotely how Mycroft had pictured him. He was a big man, tallish and rather round with hair almost the same shade as Redbeard's. He had a bushy moustache that was much the same color, and his rosy complexion gave Mycroft the impression of a man who enjoyed knocking back a pint or two in the evenings. His light blue eyes had a kind twinkle in them, and his burly figure made one think of indolence and comfort.

 _Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!_

But there was more to him than that, Mycroft was convinced. Others might have missed it, but his shrewd gaze had observed the deceptively nimble way Sir Geoffrey had lifted the cordoning and slipped beneath it to enter the ring despite his bulk, and how confidently he had splashed across the grass field on his way to the judges' table without fear of slipping. His shoes, Mycroft noted, had been carefully chosen for tramping outdoors in all kinds of weather. Though expensive and well cared for, they were also well worn, suggesting that – despite his appearance – Sir Geoffrey was not a man who lived at his desk.

 _Squeak! Squeak! SQUEAK!_

And then there was the way Sir Geoffrey was now examining the sheltie perched on the table – his fingers, though stubby, were quick, calloused and practiced as they ran over the animal's limbs, examining its lines and feeling for abnormalities. His good-humored, light blue eyes were shrewd, and Mycroft had a feeling they missed nothing – a feeling that was reinforced by the rich, fruity voice that emanated from the man as he kindly but bluntly gave his assessment of how the sheltie's young mistress had performed during the class, both what she had done right and wrong, and how she might improve.

Mycroft suddenly pictured the man – this man from whom he hoped to obtain a reference, this high-ranking Home Office official – turning that assessing gaze on himself. Judging him, in effect.

 _SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!_

Mycroft's nerves finally got the better of him.

" _Will you STOP that?!"_ he roared, whirling round to confront the infernal dog. He snatched the yellow squeak toy away from the startled setter and flung it as hard as he could over the heads of the people nearest their bench.

Though Mycroft was decidedly _not_ a sportsman, it was actually quite a good throw. The ball had completely disappeared from view.

Turning back to their bench, he found both his parents and Redbeard staring at him. All three looked astonished. Mycroft could almost have sworn that Redbeard also looked outraged.

" _Really_ , Mike," his mother huffed reproachfully. "I know you're nervous, but there's no call to be so stroppy!"

Suddenly embarrassed, Mycroft looked around quickly. To his infinite relief, the noise of the chattering crowd had drowned out his outburst; Sir Geoffrey wasn't even looking their way. He turned back to his parents, chagrined.

"Apologies," he muttered.

Daddy cleared his throat, then handed Mycroft Redbeard's lead.

"Look, Mike…your brother's been gone longer than he should be – he probably got distracted. Why don't you go and find him? Take the dog with you; your packet says it's a good idea to walk him a bit before he goes in the ring. Do you both good."

"But he'll get filthy!" Was that a hint of a whine in his own voice?

"Not at all; his paws will get a bit wet between here and the pavement, that's all, and we'll put him to rights when you get back," Mr. Holmes said encouragingly. He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out some bills, which he handed over to Mycroft. "Find your brother, and get yourselves something to eat from one of the vendors while you're at it."

"Good idea," Mummy said approvingly. "And make sure your brother eats, Mycroft – he only played with his breakfast this morning. He thinks I didn't see him, but I did…we don't want him keeling over."

Mycroft sighed. "Come on," he mumbled, tugging Redbeard back towards the area where the vendors were set up.

* * *

*See "The Adventure of the Illustrious Client" from _The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes_ by Arthur Conan Doyle, published 1924.

 _Many thanks to englishtutor for proofreading this for me!_


	5. Showtime

Sherlock, of course, was _not_ at the water fountain, but Mycroft hadn't really expected him to be. The child craved stimulation; a crowd like this provided ample opportunity to "play deductions." The temptation to slip off and explore would have been too much to resist.

Using a ceramic bowl placed below the fountain, Mycroft gave the dog a drink while deliberating on what to do next. With the number of people milling about (whole families appeared to have turned up) queues at the food vendors were sure to be long, so he decided the most prudent course of action would be to buy something now rather than wait for Sherlock and risk running out of time before his class.

There were plenty of vendors to choose from, selling everything from homemade cakes to burgers. Mycroft bought one order of fish and chips and another of chicken and chips with the intention of eating whichever his little brother did not.

 _And he_ will _eat it, too – I'll see to that,_ Mycroft thought grimly.

Sherlock found meals to be dull affairs, and when his attention was engaged he often forgot to eat entirely (a thing Mycroft never did). On a few past occasions he had even become undernourished and over-stimulated to the point of keeling over. Mycroft had witnessed one of these episodes firsthand and it had frightened him badly – the thrill of fear that had gone through him when Sherlock had gone suddenly limp as a ragdoll, tumbling flat with a pinched, white face, was one the elder boy did not want to experience ever again.

Keeping a sharp eye out for his little brother, Mycroft made his way through the crowd, careful to keep to the edge of the field where the ground was driest while carefully balancing both food orders in one hand and hanging onto Redbeard's lead with the other. Fortunately Redbeard, despite his interest in these new surroundings, heeled as beautifully as ever. Mycroft couldn't help feeling grateful to the dog – and proud, for the setter was attracting many admiring glances. It was common for people to remark on Redbeard's handsomeness at home, but here, amongst knowledgeable dog people who were well familiar with canine quality and breeding, he was making a small sensation.

"Well, well well! I don't believe my eyes! _Mycroft Holmes_ is actually out in public, in the _daytime_ , no less? I thought you'd burn up in the sunshine!"

There was a rather nasty laugh, and Mycroft froze at the sound of a voice he'd hoped never to hear again. Turning round slowly, he saw with dismay that it was indeed Walter Valentine, a boy from his school.

Had _been_ _from school_ , Mycroft reminded himself – last term had been Walter's last, and Mycroft had actually been looking forward to not seeing him this autumn. Yet here he was, all fifteen stones. Walter was a strong, solid youth, built rather like a fireplug.

"Valentine. How very… _tedious_ to see you."

"School's not in session…I'm surprised to see you _moving_ , Holmes." Walter chortled unpleasantly.

Mycroft smiled thinly. Jealous of his intellect and with a natural love of bullying, Valentine had taken every opportunity he could to make Mycroft miserable while they were at school – something he was able to do far more often than might be expected for, though not in the same year (Valentine was four years older), they _were_ in the same house. Not that the cretin had ever caught much trouble for it, Mycroft reflected bitterly. A talent for rugby and a score of influential relatives could cover a multitude of academic sins – particularly when one shared a house with a pet genius. Even during his first year Mycroft had been intimidated into completing more than a few of Valentine's assignments.

For all he benefited from Mycroft's help, however, Walter had more often been resentful rather than grateful, chagrined that a boy so much younger beat him in every exam. _Not that this was such a great accomplishment_ , Mycroft thought. _A complete imbecile would have little trouble outscoring Walter Valentine._

"Well, it _is_ the summer holidays," Mycroft replied, forcing his tone to stay light. "Fresh air, exercise, and – all that."

"The holidays only ever seem to put _girth_ on _you_ , Holmes, not muscle," Walter said, grinning. "I can see why, too…what, one order of fish and chips isn't enough for you? Or are you saving one to try to put some muscle on _that_ scrawny thing?"

He motioned at Redbeard, then dropped his hand to the head of his own dog – a sturdy boxer with a brindled coat. "A dog's a step in the right direction if you want to man up, Holmes, but next time you might want to pick a more masculine breed, like Brutus here. Showing him in conformation then, are you?"

"Twelve to sixteen years junior handling," Mycroft reluctantly admitted. "And you?"

"Seventeen to twenty-two years," Walter replied, and Mycroft couldn't help feeling relieved. "I'm showing him as a favor to my father…he feels it's a good way to be seen, anyway, if you know what I mean. And Brutus is such a looker, who _wouldn't_ want to see him?" he added proudly.

Personally, Mycroft thought the boxer's vacant expression was a good match for Valentine's own. "And what other _manly_ pursuits are you going to be engaging in now that you're out of school, Valentine?"

"Not wasting my time with uni, if that's what you're driving at. No, I've a _career_ now, – a position lined up with Hambros Bank, in their Tower Hill office," Walter boasted. "I start in September. Junior-level for now, but that won't be for long, I'm sure."

Mycroft's lip curled. Perhaps it was unwise, but, goaded by the memories of this lout's cruel pranks at his expense, for once he set his customary prudence aside.

"I'm sure. Having a surname which resonates with the senior bankers can be _quite_ beneficial when it comes to advancement, can't it?"

It took a moment, but Valentine's face darkened. "What are you saying, Holmes?"

"My apologies…I forgot you have difficulty working out the meaning of words that are more than two syllables long," Mycroft when on recklessly. "Good job I didn't use more complex terms like _nepotism_ or–"

Scowling, Valentine stepped forward with his hand raised, probably intending to shove him. "Listen, you–"

A low, vicious growl stopped Walter in his tracks. He looked down, then retracted his hand as he took a hasty step backwards.

Surprised, Mycroft also looked down. Redbeard had stepped forward and put himself between Mycroft and the other youth. His usually warm brown eyes were narrowed and fiery, and his teeth were bared in an ugly snarl. His head was also lowered, Mycroft saw – a sign that Carraclough had warned meant a dog was deadly serious, since it was taking the precaution of guarding its own throat.

At Walter's side, Brutus the boxer whimpered a little, dropping his head and tucking his tail in a submissive manner while pulling back on his lead.

With an uneasy glance at Redbeard, Walter backed away slowly. "You want to keep that fellow under control, Holmes," he muttered. Turning, he walked off without another word, the boxer eagerly pulling on the lead to get them away from Redbeard. The setter, teeth now covered but neck still stiff, glared after them.

Mycroft stared at him. He felt strangely… _flattered_.

"Well," he finally said, uncertainly. "I suppose some thanks are in order."

Redbeard looked up at him and gave his tail a quick wag.

"Hardly necessary, though," Mycroft went on, trying to reconcile how he felt about the dog's protective instincts coming out on his behalf. "He might have shoved me, but that was all he would have done. Walter Valentine's usual penchant is for making people look ridiculous. Not worth you getting us disqualified, I shouldn't think. Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, you understand…"

Waving his tail, Redbeard suddenly gave Mycroft's near hand a quick swipe with his tongue.

"Ergh…now that _really_ was unnecessary," Mycroft said crossly, wiping his hand on his trousers. "I'll thank you not to spray saliva all over me!" He took a firmer hold of the lead. "Come on, let's go find Sherlock."

At the sound of Sherlock's name, Redbeard gave an eager whine. Mycroft, feeling a bit silly, glanced round quickly to see if anyone had noticed him talking to the dog. Reassured to see no one looking at them oddly, he continued traversing the circumference of the field.

He supposed that, even if people _had_ noticed, this was not the sort of venue where anyone would question it.

* * *

He still hadn't found Sherlock before another familiar voice from school called his name.

"Holmes?"

Mycroft, who had been scanning the vendor stalls in the car park for signs of his missing brother, turned back towards the field to meet the surprised eyes of Sir Geoffrey Westward's nephew, his housemate Michael Bradley. He made his way over to him at once.

Michael, also dressed in a smart suit, rose to meet him. He was a nice-looking boy with freckles and sandy hair that always seemed to be in need cutting. Not particularly bright, Mycroft thought, but a decent sort.

To his immense surprise, Michael seemed delighted to see him.

"I had no idea you were into dogs!" the boy enthused, offering Mycroft his hand. "Come on – bring your fellow under here out of the sun. My, he _is_ a beauty! Is he yours, or are you showing him for someone else?"

Mycroft stepped onto the rubber mats under the canopy. He was so taken aback by this welcome that it took him a moment to form an answer. He even forgot for the moment to be proud of Redbeard.

"He's mine," Mycroft said truthfully. (Well, that was true – on paper, anyway.) Then, because something about Michael's honest expression prompted it, he added, "This is my first show with him – I'm in the twelve-to-sixteen years junior handling class."

Michael grinned and drew his attention to an energetic-looking, black male Labrador about a year younger than Redbeard; he had already rushed up to meet the setter, and the two dogs were enthusiastically exchanging greetings.

"This is Roman – that is, his registered name's Westwoods' Apogean Tide, but _I_ call him Roman. We've got an agility class at half two. I've been training him myself! Well – my grandfather's been helping me."

"Apogean Tide" – Mycroft remembered suddenly that the Westwoods Kennels were near the seaside. He knew enough about Labradors to see that Roman was a bit too burly and short in the leg to make a good conformation show prospect, but his muscular build was just right for agility work. Mycroft couldn't help smiling when the eager animal came to give him a friendly, snuffly greeting.

Michael, for his part, knelt to stroke Redbeard's beautiful coat. "And who's this?"

"Tam O'Shanter of Knightscroft," Mycroft said proudly. Then he laughed. "We call him Redbeard."

Michael chuckled. "Sounds like he should be sailing the Seven Seas! Did _you_ name him that?"

"My idiotic little brother, actually," Mycroft said wryly. "He aspires to be a pirate, of all things. He and Redbeard are thick as thieves."

Michael looked up with interest. "I didn't know you had a kid brother…how old?"

Mycroft made a face. "Seven. He's wandered off…I was looking for him while giving Redbeard a chance to stretch his legs."

Michael rolled his eyes. "I have a sister who's four. She's pure evil. I feel for you, but sisters are worse, believe me. At least _you_ can give your brother a knock when he forgets his place. Irena gets really physical – pinching, biting – but my parents go mad if I smack her because she's a _girl_."

"Yes, well, _you_ don't have Sherlock for a little brother!" Mycroft said drily.

Michael goggled at him. "What kind of a name is _Sherlock_?"

Mycroft sighed. "My mother's more of a 'mathsy' person as a general rule, but she _is_ rather fond William Sherlock's _A Practical Discourse on Death_."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Parents, yeah? Maybe _that's_ why your brother's a pest…my sister doesn't _need_ an excuse. Want a fizzy drink?"

To his own surprise, Mycroft found himself sitting in a folding chair sharing a lemonade with Michael Bradley while the other boy chattered nonstop about dogs and Redbeard lay nose-to-nose on the mat with Roman in a silent, doggy communion. Michael seemed both amazed and delighted that Mycroft knew dogs as well, apparently finding him more interesting and relatable because of it. He explained how he was at the show today with his grandparents and his uncle; his uncle (as Mycroft knew only too well) was acting as a judge; his grandmother was showing a young novice bitch to give her some experience, and his grandfather was off chatting with other gundog enthusiasts.

Mycroft was too taken aback by the other boy's effusiveness to lend much to the conversation, but every so often he asked a question or made an observation that reinforced his own canine knowledge, and each time Michael seemed even more impressed and pleased with him.

While they were talking, the breeze picked up. Redbeard suddenly sprang to his feet and, quivering with excitement, went on point. Following his eager gaze, Mycroft saw a portable kennel on the far side of the Westwards' bench. He had observed it earlier, but, because a canvas was draped over the top and sides of it, had assumed it was empty. Now his eyes caught a movement within it, and he realized the small, portable fan he'd noted earlier was directed towards it – away from where the boys were sitting, which was probably why Redbeard hadn't taken note of the occupant until the breeze had carried the scent to him. Breaking his point, the red setter seemed to forget Roman as he dashed up to the kennel and thrust an eager nose up to it, whining excitedly.

From within the kennel, and equally eager whine answered him.

Grinning, Michael got to his feet. "No, boy, that's not for you! Mycroft, come look at this."

He waited until Mycroft drew near before pulling the canvas aside with a flourish. "Ta da! Meet my granddad's pride and joy, Westwoods' Perigean Tide!"

Mycroft caught his breath. Inside the kennel was the most beautiful Labrador bitch he had ever seen. She had the strong build and broad head characteristic of her breed, but with an overall daintiness that made it easy to define her sex. Her long, sloping shoulders and straight, clean limbs were without fault; her topline was perfect and she was well muscled without appearing bulky. Her buff-colored coat was that shade of yellow known unofficially amongst enthusiasts as pale cream. Her ears were set well back on her head and her dark chocolate eyes were good-tempered and full of intelligence.

Redbeard, Mycroft noted, appeared to be entirely smitten. Without warning, the setter dropped his chest and elbows to the mat, forepaws splayed wide and rump thrust high in the air. Tail waving madly, he pointed his nose to the underside of the canopy and voiced his approval of this vision of loveliness with booming enthusiasm. _"Roo, roo! Roo-roo-roo!"_

The sound briefly dominated even this cacophonous assembly of barks, howls and yaps; Mycroft, noting the heads turning in their direction, jerked Redbeard upright by the collar, flushing in mortification. "Shut _up_ , you daft dog!" he hissed.

Michael guffawed. "He has good taste! But she seems to be returning the compliment."

Mycroft looked. Indeed, Perigean Tide was using her very expressive eyes to flirt shamelessly with Redbeard, whining eagerly as she thrust her muzzle towards him as well as she could through the bars of her kennel. She wiggled her whole body suggestively.

"He should be flattered," Michael remarked. "All the dogs in Granddad's kennel have been falling over themselves trying to get her attention, but she won't give any of them the time of day… Granddad's a bit put out by it, even though it's for the best since she's not for any of _them_. That's why she's here," he explained in response to Mycroft's questioning look. "Perry's in season… Granddad brought her here to be impregnated by the Lab who took Best in Show at Crufts year before last."

Mycroft couldn't help being impressed. "So the stud's here today?"

"No…his owner sent a semen sample to the veterinary surgeon that's on-site for the event. Would you believe Granddad paid _£300_ for it?!"

"My word," was all Mycroft could say. He was staggered.

"Too right," Michael agreed fervently. He rearranged the canvas over the back, sides and top of the kennel again, leaving only the front exposed. "That's why we have the cover on her, and the fan…to keep her cool in the heat, yeah, but also to keep her scent from driving the males mad. That breeze must have shifted the cover."

Redbeard was now pawing at the kennel door in desperation, panting excitedly as Perry tried to reach his face with her tongue in quite a brazen manner.

"She's flawless," Mycroft said honestly, and Michael beamed.

"Yeah, she's really valuable, too. That's why Granddad has the kennel locked…he won't risk anything happening to her."

"If she's so important he should get a better lock. _I_ could pick that, easy – I've been practicing!"

The boys turned to find Sherlock standing behind them He was holding Redbeard's empty water dish in his hand. The setter, which had been so focused on the bitch that for once he had remained unconscious of his master's approach, leapt up to plant both forepaws on Sherlock's chest, his tail waving madly as he bestowed a sloppy kiss to the boy's face. Then he dropped lightly back down to the mat, seized Sherlock's wrist gently in his teeth, and attempted to draw the child closer to the kennel so he could show him the enchanting creature within.

"Is this the pirate?" Michael said, eyes twinkling.

Mycroft stared at his brother. He'd briefly forgotten why he had been wandering round the grounds. "How did you find us?"

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "I heard Redbeard from all the way across the field!"

Michael snorted. "You can tell one dog's bark from another in all this noise?"

Sherlock was disdainful. "I know _Redbeard's_ bark, of course."

"Never mind that…where have you _been_?" Mycroft demanded, seizing Sherlock's arm and giving him a shake. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Doesn't _look_ like you were looking," Sherlock snarked, jerking free and rubbing his arm.

Redbeard, turning his attention from Perry for a moment, nudged Sherlock's elbow with his nose. Sherlock absently began stroking his ears with his free hand, and Redbeard sat a moment with his eyes half closed, looking blissful, before turning back to Perry.

Mycroft couldn't help feeling a little jealous.

"What _is_ it with you?" Sherlock demanded, glaring down at his pet. "It's just another dumb dog!"

Embarrassed, Mycroft snapped, " _Think_ , Sherlock…it's a _female_."

"So?"

"She's in heat," Michael explained.

Sherlock frowned. "'In heat?'"

Mycroft gave him a superior smile. "Don't be alarmed," he said smugly. "It's to do with sex." He looked across at Michael. "Please excuse me…my dear little brother still hasn't got over the trauma of witnessing his white mice in a rather compromising position a year or so ago."

Sherlock flushed and turned his attention to Redbeard as Mycroft and Michael laughed together in the smugly superior way of teenaged boys who think they know rather more than they do concerning adult matters.

"A stupid _girl_ dog," Sherlock said derisively."

Michael rolled his eyes. "You sound like Irena."

"Who's Irena?"

"My little sister. She's about your age and about as much of a nuisance as your brother says you are!"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "She thinks other girls are stupid?"

"No, she thinks all _boys_ are stupid!"

Mycroft suddenly remembered the food. " _Anyway_ …now we can finally eat. It's cold by now, of course, but I'm starving." He pushed the basket of chicken and chips at Sherlock and grabbed a piece of fish for himself. Then he remembered his manners. "Would you like some, Michael?"

"I've already eaten, thanks all the same." Michael paused, then added slyly, "So they're not _both_ for you, then?"

If Mycroft hadn't run into Walter Valentine he might have been insulted by this, but the fresh memory of Valentine's malicious taunt made it easier for him to hear the good-natured teasing in Michael's voice. He surprised himself by grinning.

"No…one order was for this _boil_ here."

"I want the _fish_ and chips," Sherlock said sullenly. Mycroft closed his eyes, bit the inside of his cheek hard, and slowly counted to ten backwards in Arabic before swapping his fish for Sherlock's chicken. " _Eat_ ," he commanded.

Michael laughed outright. "I see what you mean! Kid, you'd give my sister a run for her money."

Sherlock stared at him a moment as he chewed on a piece of fish; then, apparently having decided he was being insulted, he swallowed the fish and stuck his tongue out at Michael. Mycroft aimed a kick at him to teach him better manners, but Sherlock dodged it easily as Michael laughed again.

When they had finished eating, Mycroft checked his watch. "My class begins in less than an hour. We'd better go back to our bench." He looked up at Michael. "It was…good talking with you."

"Sorry you couldn't come on the field training weekend." Michael sounded honestly regretful. He surprised Mycroft by reaching to shake his hand. "Good luck, Mycroft. I'd come and cheer you on, but I promised my grandfather I'd stay here and mind Perry."

It took some doing to drag Redbeard away from Perigean Tide, and he and the new object of his affection voiced their protests over this separation loudly and in no uncertain terms. It was this, perhaps, that kept Mycroft from taking in for a moment that one of his schoolmates had called him by his Christian name in an entirely amiable way.

* * *

The return to the Holmes' bench heralded the return of Mycroft's nervousness – nervousness that increased as the time for his and Redbeard's class to begin loomed closer. He did his best to hide it, though, as Mummy set about smartening him up while Daddy, assisted by Sherlock, smartened up Redbeard.

"Now, Mike, there's no need to worry," Mummy said, dabbing the last flecks of mud that had dotted his trousers in back below the knees. She had already gone over him with the lint brush and straightened Mycroft's tie. "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

"'Course you will, son," Daddy said encouragingly. "The important thing is to just relax and try to have fun with it." He was crouching on one knee next to Redbeard, smoothing the feathers along the dog's chest with a brush from the grooming kit. Paying no attention to him, Redbeard sat straight up, panting genially, his brown eyes following Sherlock busily rummaging through the grooming kit with keen interest, tail flopping from side to side.

Sherlock, ignoring everyone, was muttering to himself.

"Yes, Father," Mycroft said dutifully.

"Your father's right, Mike," Mummy chided gently. Straightening, she scrutinized him closely, dug a comb out of her handbag, and attacked Mycroft's slicked-back hair with it. "It's your first show, after all; you'll improve, and besides, what's the worst that can happen?"

" _Really_ , Mummy, will you _stop_ that?!" Mycroft cried impatiently, jerking his head away as his mother reached to smooth back the hair over his temple with two fingertips she had just wetted with her tongue. "I'm not _seven_ ; I can manage to comb my own hair!"

Insulted at this disparagement of seven-year-olds, Sherlock paused in his ransacking of the grooming kit to glare at his elder brother.

Rather than become offended, Mrs. Holmes gave Mycroft's arm a kindly pat. "Of course you can," she said comfortingly, and Mycroft found her condescending, our-boy-is-nervous-so-let's-humor-him tone perfectly maddening.

Mr. Holmes straightened, giving Redbeard's ears a quick scratch on his way up. "There now," he said heartily, looking from the dog to Mycroft and back again. "You both look very handsome."

Mrs. Holmes poked the back of Sherlock's head when the boy snorted and rolled his eyes.

Tactfully, Mr. Holmes cleared his throat. "You know, I could just do with a cuppa," he said brightly. Turning to his wife, he said, "Mycroft's got to be ringside with Redbeard in ten minutes…why don't you and I have a walk round, fetch some tea, and then stake out our spot by the ring in time for the class beginning at half eleven?"

It couldn't be clearer that he was really saying, _The lad's worried. Let's give him some space._

"That sounds perfect!" Mrs. Holmes said cheerfully. She gave Mycroft's arm a quick squeeze, then joined her husband. "Coming along, Sherlock?"

"I need him to help me with Redbeard," Mycroft said quickly.

"That's right, he's baiting him," Mr. Holmes agreed, reaching to tuck his wife's hand in his arm. He glanced at his younger son. "Make sure you're in place in plenty of time for when it's Mycroft's turn to show, son. Good luck, Mike! We'll see you both afterwards."

They had hardly gone when Mycroft noticed the thin-but-energetic woman with the flyaway gray curls who had seen to Mycroft's registration briskly making her way to Ring 4. Evidently she was acting as ring steward for Mycroft's class, and he noticed several other young people with their dogs beginning to gather near the judge's table. Sir Geoffrey wasn't there yet, but Mycroft wanted to be there when he arrived.

"Well…we'd better get started. But what's the matter with _you_?" he demanded suddenly, for at that moment Sherlock, with an exasperated huff, has upended the grooming kit, scattering the contents all over the mat.

"I can't _find_ it," he exploded.

Mycroft, exchanging Redbeard's slip lead for the martingale lead, didn't look up. "Find _what_?" he said distractedly.

"Redbeard's ball!"

"His–" Mycroft paused, bewildered. Then, as Redbeard uttered a soft, eager _whuff_ and scrambled up expectantly at the word _ball_ , he remembered.

 _Oh. Right._

"Well, never mind it now," he said hurriedly. "We need to–"

"But I _know_ I brought it!" Sherlock now turned to the hamper, tossing things out left and right.

"Sherlock, forget the bloody ball, we can look for it later," Mycroft insisted. "Right now you should be getting out the bait so you can figure out the best place to stand while I stack the dog!"

"But the ball _is_ his bait!

Mycroft froze. _"What?!"_ Striding over to his small brother, he caught the imp by the arm and gave him a shake. "Say that again, trog!"

"Ow!" Sherlock shook himself free, glaring up at his brother in indignant astonishment. "What's the matter with you? I brought Redbeard's ball to bait him with, and don't shout at me, I _know_ I brought it!"

"You–" For a moment Mycroft was rendered speechless. Then he found his tongue. "You _idiot_! For _weeks_ you've been using tidbits to bait him with, and on the day of the show you switch off?!"

Stung by Mycroft's inexplicable injustice, Sherlock snapped back, "Sometimes he gets sick if he eats too soon after long car journeys, what of it? What _difference_ does it make? It's here somewhere–"

Mycroft groaned, covering his eyes with his palm. "I threw it away!"

The child gaped at him, then drew his eyebrows down angrily. "You threw away Redbeard's favorite – _why_?!"

Mycroft threw down his hand and glared at him. _"Because he was driving me mad with his infernal squeaking!"_

Before either boy could say anything further the PA system blared an announcement:

 _"_ _Twelve to sixteen years taking part in the all-breed junior handling class at half eleven please report to Ring 4 within the next five minutes."_

Seizing the end of Redbeard's lead in one hand, Mycroft motioned to the crowded area behind Sherlock with the other. "I threw the blasted thing over there – _find_ it. And if you _can't_ find it, for pity's sake find _something_ to bait him with, if you know what's good for you!"

With that, he spun round and strode as well as the wet turf sucking at his shoes would allow towards Ring 4, pulling a bewildered Redbeard after him. He knew he probably wasn't being fair, but at that moment he didn't care – all that mattered was making an impression on Sir Geoffrey.


	6. Making an Impression

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." The brisk, gray-haired woman from the registration table, now acting as ring steward, remembered him at once. "And Tam O'Shanter of Knightscroft! Right on time, very good."

She checked to ensure the letter on his armband was uppermost, then, putting her hand briefly on his shoulder, directed him to an area just behind the judge's table.

"Wait just there with the other large breeds…I'll have you all sorted in a moment." She turned to a girl with a brown-and-white spaniel who had followed Mycroft to the judge's table.

The group to which the ring steward directed him consisted of a girl with an apricot standard poodle, two others with Labradors (one yellow, one chocolate), and a boy with a dark sable collie. Standing just behind these was another boy holding what was clearly a mongrel on a leash – a gray-and-white, shaggy thing with one upright ear and one floppy one, three milk-white socks, a gay* tail, and a pair of mismatched eyes – one blue, one brown. A dark gray patch over it accentuated the blue eye.

Mycroft couldn't help sniffing. The boy with the collie caught his expression and quickly averted his eyes, grinning. The girl with the blonde Lab tittered, while her friend with the chocolate one smirked.

The boy with the mongrel reddened and looked away. He scratched his dog's ears; it responded by grinning and wagging its corkscrew tail.

Mycroft felt slightly guilty. He had not meant to draw attention to the boy, who was clearly feeling out of place with his cur amongst these purebreds. He had a perfect right to be here – this class was not a true conformation competition, but an assessment of the skills of the young handlers, and thus open to anyone between the ages of twelve and sixteen regardless of breed – or, in this case, non-breed.

Even so, Mycroft couldn't help feeling that the other boy, whom he guessed to be the same age as himself, might have done better to have sat this show out. Dog enthusiasts were plentiful in this area; there were many breeders in attendance today who took canine standards very seriously and, while pleasantly proportioned and evidently good-natured (as evidenced by the way the cur was responding to Redbeard's overtures of friendship), the boy's mongrel was about as misbegotten a creature as Mycroft could imagine.

Still – it made Mycroft uncomfortable to know that, had his parents witnessed his subtle but observable reaction, they would have called it _unkind_.

There was no time for him to dwell on it, though, for the ring steward suddenly announced, "That's everyone! And just in time, too – here comes Sir Geoffrey."

Sure enough, Sir Geoffrey, his trousers now quite muddy below the knees, was striding across the field towards Ring 4, swinging his arms and whistling cheerfully.

"Right then," said the ring steward, and Mycroft dragged his attention back to her. "Queue up alphabetically according to your letter. Smaller breeds, you'll go first."

She took the arm of a petite girl with light brown hair and the letter _A_ on her armband and arranged her at the front of the queue. The girl, who was leading a lovely little chestnut-and-white Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and looked rather green with nerves, did not seem at all happy about going first. _B_ was a spotty boy with a rather feisty looking Cairn terrier, then came _C_ – a tall, bespectacled girl with a tricolor Shetland Sheepdog.

"Now the larger breeds," the ring steward said brightly. "And, er, non-breed – though bright as a button for all that, as anyone can see plainly."

She smiled encouragingly to the boy with the mongrel. He flushed slightly and looked down.

Once everyone was queued up the way she wanted, the ring steward explained the process.

"The show secretary will introduce Sir Geoffrey; he'll say a few words, then motion you to enter the ring. You'll all gait your dogs one full circuit 'round the outside of the ring in formation, then continue on until you reach the sign with letter matching that on your armband."

Here she indicated the posted signs all around the edge of the ring, each clearly marked with a single letter. Mycroft noted that there were nine of them – one for each handler – and quickly located his own.

"When you've reached your place, you'll stop and immediately free stand your dog," the ring steward directed. "Once everyone is in his or her place, Sir Geoffrey will walk round the interior of the ring and give everyone a quick look-over."

Mycroft shifted uneasily. Even _without_ Sir Geoffrey examining the dogs at this point, the process would take a few minutes. He hoped Redbeard would remain in position for the entire time despite the many distractions.

"Once he's had a look at all of you, Sir Geoffrey will direct you to complete a second circuit of the ring with your dog, this time one-by-one, beginning with the letter _A_. That's you, dear," the woman added, looking at the girl with the spaniel (who in turn offered her a rather sickly smile).

Mycroft looked round anxiously; the area around Ring 4 was filling up. He spotted his parents. They had positioned themselves directly across from where he would be standing with Redbeard. There was no sign of his Sherlock, and Mycroft felt his stomach knot a bit. Redbeard, sensing this, looked up at him with a slight whimper.

" _D_ through _I_ will gait one complete circuit, ending back at the spot designated by your letter," the ring steward said, looking at the group with the larger dogs. Turning back to the small-breed group, she continued, "You first three – _A_ through _C_ – will stop at the judge's table instead of returning to your places. Once you've completed your circuit, hand stack your dog at once without waiting to be told – those of you with small dogs should lift them to the table first. Sir Geoffrey will go over your dog, then have a nice chat with you about how you can improve. Easy, yes?"

She gave them another encouraging smile, reminded them to keep an eye on the judge at all times, and always to show the utmost politeness and consideration to their fellow exhibitors. She then wished them luck and made her way to the judges' table.

Mycroft, thinking he might have been a bit politer to his fellow exhibitor with the cur (letter _F_ , now stood next to him), felt a bit uncomfortable. Deliberately looking away from the other boy he instead focused on Sir Geoffrey, who was now proceeding to the center of Ring 4 accompanied by the show secretary.

The show secretary, who was clearly a volunteer for Macmillan Cancer Support and knew little about dog showing, raised his hand for silence. "Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned clearly, "it gives me great pleasure to introduce our Junior Handlers Twelve to Sixteen Years judge, Sir Geoffrey Westward, who has very generously taken time away from his many responsibilities in the Home Office to support us today.

"An avid gundog fancier and sporting shooting enthusiast, Sir Geoffrey is a long-standing member of the IGL and the United Retrievers Club, and a founding member of the Yorkshire Field Trial Society. Sir Geoffrey's family founded the renowned Westwoods Kennels, which has bred many champion Labrador Retrievers over the years. Sir Geoffrey himself has owned many gundogs, and is highly regarded for his commitment to promoting gundog breeds through his participation in the BASC. We hope you'll join us in welcoming Sir Geoffrey!"

As the crowd applauded with enthusiasm, Mycroft saw the girl with the poodle relax slightly, while the two girls with the Labradors shared a quick, smug grin. He knew what they were thinking – that Sir Geoffrey, with his preference for gundogs, would be more likely to look favorably on traditional gundog breeds. It was this very reason that breeders were generally not invited to judge championship qualifiers…though the practice was not forbidden, disgruntled owners had been known to complain that a breeder-judge tended to show preference for the classes, breeds, and even characteristics he or she favored, resulting in (supposedly) subjective decisions.

Mycroft wouldn't have minded if this turned out to be true in Sir Geoffrey's case, as Redbeard himself was a gundog breed.

Sir Geoffrey raised his right hand, and the applause died down. A burly man with quick, bright eyes, his auburn hair, round, red face, and beaming smile made his head look rather like a small sun.

"Thank, you, thank you for that lovely welcome!" he said cheerfully. He had a voice that seemed to rise from the bottom of his chest. "I have been having a grand time today, though choosing winners has not been easy…in the class I just judged I had to select a winner for 'Shiniest Coat'…a difficult task thanks to the admirable diligence of the dogs' young handlers!"

Catching some of his joviality, the crowd laughed along with him.

Mycroft, with the lofty cynicism of the very intelligent and the very young, just barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes.

Sir Geoffrey turned to face the group of twelve-to-sixteen years. His kind face projected a deep fondness for young people; he looked as though nothing pleased him more than to see them there. Speaking loudly enough so that the crowd could hear him, he directed his next words to the young handlers.

"Young ladies and gentlemen, you and your dogs are about to take part – some of you for the first time – in a conformation class similar to a championship-qualifying event. But it is not your dogs I am judging today, but your performance.

"To an amateur watching a dog show on the telly, handling looks easy. This is not the case. Dog showing is a discipline, requiring hard work, skill, patience, perseverance, and dedication on the parts of both the handler _and_ his or her dog. Learning to stand your dog, move him well…it is a discipline that can take years to perfect.

"As dog handlers, your job is to become invisible so that all the attention is placed on your _dogs_ – not on yourselves. At the same time, you must present your dogs in such a way as to bring their good points to the forefront and minimize their faults. Handlers who are most successful in achieving this are those who have formed a partnership with their dogs – a relationship built on mutual trust, respect and – ideally – friendship."

Sir Geoffrey paused, scrutinizing each of them seriously.

"Just seeing you young ladies and gentlemen here today tells me you already have an appreciation for fine dogs. I hope – if you don't know it already – that you'll come to understand what a fine thing it can be to have a dog for a friend, as well."

Mycroft frowned slightly. _Respect,_ of a sort, he could understand, but – friendship? With a mind inferior to one's own? He thought back to something Sam Carraclough might have said about a dog's heart – he hadn't really been listening. Discipline, mastery, an eye for quality – that's what showing dogs was about, wasn't it?

He had no time to ponder it any more deeply, for at that moment Sir Geoffrey dropped the serious expression and clapped his hands together once, loudly. "Now then, let's begin. Step out!"

The girl with the spaniel – _A_ – startled, stumbled, then caught herself and gaited her dog forward at a brisk trot. _B_ – the spotty boy with the cairn – counted until she was five strides ahead of him, then followed, and so on until, before he knew it, Mycroft and Redbeard were trotting, side-by-side and purposeful, round the perimeter of the ring. Like this fellow exhibitors, he was careful to keep the setter on his left towards the inside of the ring and nearest the judge.

He hated this part. Already he could feel his face flushing with warmth and his breath quickening. He did his best to hide this, though, keeping his head well up and affecting a scowl to show how serious he was.

The crowd kept up a constant applause as the youngsters gaited their dogs round the ring. Some of the parents called out encouragements to their children. Mycroft's own mother and father had got up from their chairs and were waving enthusiastically as he and Redbeard passed. Mycroft pretended not to see them, instead keeping his face forward while shifting his eyes this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of his truant little brother.

Because he had been assigned the letter _G_ , Mycroft had to make almost two revolutions before he was able to stop. But he reached his place at last, and the time it took for _H_ and _I_ to arrive at their designated spaces gave him the few extra seconds he needed to wipe his face with his handkerchief and catch his breath before Sir Geoffrey strode to the middle of the ring.

"Right then," the judge called in the booming voice that needed no amplifier. "Stand your dogs, please – four square!"

"Stand," Mycroft ordered Redbeard at once, and all around the ring he heard the others doing the same.

Dutifully, Redbeard fell into the stance they had learned in class, hind legs well back, forepaws planted directly below his shoulders. The stance was correct, but he couldn't have looked more bored if he tried – his tail drooped, his brown eyes were dull and vacant, and his chin was tucked. With a sinking heart, Mycroft saw at once that he would not be able to free stack the setter, so he stepped up beside him and took hold of his muzzle in one hand and the end of his tail in the other, moving him into the proper position and keeping him there. Sir Geoffrey, hands folded behind his back and eyes narrowed thoughtfully, was already making his first slow turn about the ring, getting everyone's measure.

Mycroft glanced round anxiously. There was no sign of Sherlock. He would have hoped the child, failing to find the ball, would have found some other item to bait Redbeard with – another toy, perhaps, or a bit of food. But in all likelihood he had, as Mycroft feared, got distracted by something and forgot where he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to be doing. _It wouldn't be the first time._

The good news was that Mycroft and Redbeard were by no means the worst in the ring. Trying not to be obvious, Mycroft surreptitiously observed his fellow exhibitors from the corners of his eyes. His spirits lifted when he saw he was one of five who had not had to resort to crouching down while stacking their dogs – in fact, F – the girl with the yellow lab – had actually positioned herself so that she was scrunching down on one leg while the other was thrust forward beneath her dog's abdomen; she was using her thigh to keep him standing while she held his chin and tail up with her hands. Even in this restrictive position she was having difficulty in keeping the excited creature under control; Mycroft saw that the hem of her yellow dress was dragging in the mud.

Of the others, the girl with the spaniel, the boy with the cairn, and the girl with the chocolate lab were also crouching next to their dogs. The girl with the sheltie had to lean over to hold his chin and tail erect, but she was definitely standing. The boy with the collie and the girl with the poodle were, like Mycroft, standing broadside to their dogs and using their hands to position their heads and tails. Mycroft noticed that _D's_ grip on his collie was very light, but the girl with the poodle had to keep as firm a hold on her dog's chin as Mycroft's was on Redbeard's. And the boy with the mongrel–

Mycroft blinked, forgetting for a moment not to stare openly. Rather than standing between his dog's hip and shoulder, the boy with the mongrel had actually positioned himself at the animal's head, not touching him at all and keeping only a very light touch on the lead. Yet the dog was freestanding perfectly, his sturdy legs planted squarely beneath him, tail out and quivering just slightly, head well up, chin lifted. The mismatched eyes fixed on their young master's were alight with joy and affection, and he had an altogether winning expression on his patched face. It was the sort of thing one might see at Crufts – the boy wasn't even baiting his dog – and Mycroft noticed Sir Geoffrey pause ever-so-slightly before this pair and give an approving nod before moving on.

Dragging his eyes back to the center of the ring, Mycroft gritted his teeth in frustration. He _knew_ Redbeard's beauty would draw every eye – and most importantly, Sir Geoffrey's – if only Sherlock were here baiting him like he was supposed to be!

Sir Geoffrey signaled to the girl with the spaniel to gait her dog around the ring, and things progressed quickly from there.

Swiftly and efficiently the judge moved, yet his lively eyes seemed to miss nothing. Assisted by the ring steward, he directed handler after hander to gait his or her dog round the ring, then return to stand the dog while he examined it. His quick yet careful examination was a mere formality – he was not looking for strengths and weaknesses, but testing the handlers by seeing how the dogs behaved in response to his prodding.

He was generous with his praise, and kind as well as blunt when giving his assessments of what each handler needed to work on. When the girl with the yellow Lab grew red and tearful because the excited creature refused to stand (instead jumping up on the judge and the ring steward in turn with his muddy paws), Sir Geoffrey patted her shoulder and offered her his handkerchief as he told her she needed to be firmer and more consistent with her training. When the collie snapped at him with an ill-tempered snarl, he dodged the sharp white teeth easily, and was understanding as well as firm when he reminded the abashed owner how important it was to control his dog's head at all times.

Sir Geoffrey left every junior handler feeling good about this first show and determined to improve; this is the mark of a good judge, and Mycroft could tell that the crowd was applauding as much for him as they were for each dog and its young handler. His own confidence grew as the judging continued, for he could see that, despite the lack of "spark" Sam had alluded to in his handling classes, Redbeard had the mechanics of the process down better than most of the other dogs, standing patiently (if unenthusiastically) under Mycroft's direction.

It wasn't until Sir Geoffrey reached the boy with the cur that Mycroft's rising hopes for a first-place ribbon began to falter.

 _G_ and his mixed breed somehow managed to strike that difficult balance between unbridled enthusiasm and discipline during their circuit around the ring that every handler looks for. Jauntily wagging his tail, the mongrel trotted happily beside his boy, sneaking eager glances at his face as though to confirm his performance was up to scratch, never breaking stride all the while. He was the epitome of a fit, healthy animal, bursting with energy yet well-schooled, whose chief joy in life was pleasing his master. Upon completing their circuit, the boy again gave his dog the command to stand, and again the animal free-stacked so perfectly that there was no need for his master to position his head or limbs.

"Well done! Well done, indeed!" Sir Geoffrey exclaimed with pleased satisfaction. He half-turned to the crowd and raised his voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is as fine a partnership between handler and dog as one might wish to see…the animal is happy, beautifully cared for, and beautifully trained. It's also easy to see that he's not spoiled; he obeys his handler out of respect, not fear.

"I hope you've all noted," Sir Geoffrey added earnestly, now facing the junior handlers, "how this dog's attention was focused on his handler while they made their circuit – and most of all, how his handler was careful at all times to be very clear and decisive in his actions, giving no mixed signals that could potentially confuse the animal. You've done _very_ well with this fellow, young man," the judge finished, turning back to the mongrel's owner, who was now flushing with pleasure.

 _Naturally we'd be next_ , Mycroft thought sourly. He watched as Sir Geoffrey ran his hands along the dog's back, head, and legs and inspected its teeth and coat, hoping faintly that the animal might object to this procedure as some do, but of course it submitted to the examination with equanimity.

Having to take his turn immediately after this pair was daunting, but Mycroft was determined to do his best. The moment Sir Geoffrey caught his eye and motioned for him to begin gaiting, Mycroft released Redbeard's muzzle and tail, switched the end of the lead to his right hand while sliding his left to just above the slip knot, maneuvered round to the setter's right side, and began a brisk trot around the ring.

Redbeard did not drag on the lead or hang back, keeping pace with Mycroft easily and moving well, if not with the same spring in his step that the crossbred dog had shown. Mycroft was pleased to note the setter was keeping both his head and his tail erect; his long forelegs flashed out in front of him, and the beautiful feathering along his legs, chest, belly, and tail waved in a most artistic way. Though there was something undeniably mechanical about the dog's demeanor, no one could fault his stride. Redbeard had resigned himself to the martingale lead once Mycroft had learned (under Sam's direction) to be less iron-fisted with it, and gaiting was the one aspect of this whole mind-boggling process that he found least objectionable.

Mycroft did not share the dog's summation – he _loathed_ the gaiting part, though, after several weeks of practice, it did not leave him so short of breath as it had. He had never enjoyed sports, he saw no point in exercise, and he _hated_ perspiring. He was deeply thankful that, adding to his slightly improved condition, the gentle breeze, and the cooler temperatures, a fluffy cloud had helpfully arrived to obscure the midday sun just before he and Redbeard began their circuit; he just might get through this part without huffing and puffing or going red in the face, after all. Forcing himself not to scan the crowd for a sign of Sherlock, Mycroft raised his head and stared stonily ahead, adopting a stern expression in the hope it would make him look more impressive.

It would have infuriated him to realize that many of the parents present saw right through this ruse and were hiding warm, indulgent smiles at his childish bravado.

As they arrived back at their starting point, Mycroft allowed himself one last look-round for Sherlock; not seeing his little brother, he pressed his lips together grimly and commanded Redbeard to stand before stepping round to his side to hand-stack him. There was nothing to be done about baiting Redbeard now, so he might as well just concentrate on doing what he could.

Perhaps it had been unreasonable to hope that, by putting on his best self, Redbeard could tip the balance of the class in Mycroft's favor – as Sir Geoffrey had said, it was _Mycroft_ being judged, not Redbeard, and Mycroft knew that, however handsome Redbeard looked, he and the dog could not hope to match the synergy between their fellow exhibitors – bait or no bait. The best they could hope for at this point was second place.

He still planned to give Sherlock a good kick when all this was over, however. Looking his best would have made Redbeard – and, by extension, Mycroft – more memorable, and he had wanted more than anything that Sir Geoffrey might remember him when the time came. Hopefully, Mycroft thought as judge and ring steward approached him, a second-place performance, paired with Redbeard's near-perfect conformation, would achieve that.

Then, under Mycroft's very hands, Redbeard suddenly seemed to come to life. His head lifted just a fraction of an inch higher, his muscles gathered under his skin like coiled springs at rest, his long, feathery ears perked up, and his tail extended behind him like a branch full of autumn leaves quivering in a breeze. An eager sparkle replaced the dullness in his golden brown eyes, his red-brown nose began to twitch, and his jaws parted slightly to reveal a glimpse of his white teeth and pink tongue. The bored expression had instantly transformed into a keen liveliness, and though he hadn't heard him whistle Mycroft knew that Sherlock must have arrived at last and placed himself and whatever he was using for bait directly in the line of the dog's sight and smell. Grasping at this chance to impress, Mycroft took his hands away from the setter's muzzle and tail while keeping a firm hold of the lead.

He felt almost weak with relief when Redbeard free-stacked perfectly.

As luck would have it, the large, puffy cloud that Mycroft had been grateful for during their second circuit around the ring passed at that very moment, letting the bright morning sunshine break through to set Redbeard's fiery coat ablaze. It couldn't have been timed better – the setter looked the very picture of health, strength, elegance and vitality; the ring steward caught her breath in appreciation and, in spite of himself, Sir Geoffrey exclaimed, "Great Scott! What perfectly dazzling beauty!"

A sense of deep triumph welling up within him, Mycroft looked towards where he knew his little brother must be – then he spotted him, and in an instant triumph was replaced with sheer horror.

Sherlock, having been unable to find Redbeard's ball, had gone in search of different bait – only instead of a new toy or a bit of food, his small hand clutched the expensive leather collar of Westwoods' Perigean Tide, Colonel Henry Westward's treasured darling, beside whom Sherlock now knelt. The lovely, cream-colored Lab, pleased at having been liberated from her stuffy kennel by this most obliging small boy, sat beside him genially as she looked round her with great interest, and Sherlock appeared quite proud of himself for having found such a wonderful substitute for Redbeard's beloved ball.

Then the bitch's fine, dark eyes lit up as they locked with Redbeard's golden ones, and she sprang to her feet with a high-pitched, eager yelp.

Even through the lead, Mycroft felt the suppressed shiver that ran through the red setter at the sound.

Worse, the light breeze that was stirring the feathers over Redbeard's deep chest appeared to be coming from the very same fan Michael had been using to cool Perry in her portable kennel. Sherlock had apparently "borrowed" it along with the bitch herself, positioning it behind her so that it was now blowing her potent scent directly into Redbeard's face.

Mycroft had nothing but impatience for people who stated the obvious, but for once found himself doing so in his own thoughts. _That…that's a bit not good._

This turned out to be a massive understatement.

In that precise moment Redbeard forgot everything – the bewildering crowd, the strange man that had been prodding at him most insultingly, Mycroft…even his dear little master. As the sight and smell of his newly beloved filled his eyes and nose, his instincts kicked in more powerfully than they ever had in his life and, with a delighted bark, he gathered his long limbs beneath him and launched himself forward as though a huge spring had suddenly released him from the earth below.

Instinctively, Mycroft tightened his grip on the lead just as the setter's four paws left the ground. This proved to be the worst thing he could have done, for a split second later the whole of Redbeard's seventy-five pounds surged against the end of the lead.

Chubby as he was, Mycroft still never stood a chance. He was yanked forward and down so hard he lost his hold on the lead and landed flat on his face in the grass as, across the field, Perry jerked away from Sherlock (knocking the surprised little boy back on his bum so that his legs flew up in the air) and sprinted to meet Redbeard with a joyful bark of her own.

The good news was that, after seventeen inches of rainfall over the past four days, the ground was so soft Mycroft's pride was the only part of him injured. The bad news was that this meant his fall was as visually spectacular as though he had done a spread-eagled belly flop into a lake – muddy water splashed upwards in sheets on either side of him, soaking him through.

Never mind his dress shoes – thick mud not only coated his suit, it got _inside_ his shirt, his trousers, down his pants and in his socks. It filled his eyes and ears, and even coated his teeth (along with a fair amount of grass).

Shakily, Mycroft pushed himself up with both arms. There was a loud and most undignified squelching sound as he did so.

Once upright, he immediately considered drowning himself by dropping his face back down into the massive puddle he'd landed in, for the sight that met his eyes (once he'd wiped the mud out of them) was that of Redbeard and Perry, rapturously consummating their union in full view of the entire assembly.

* * *

* A dog that carries its tail above the horizontal level of the back is said to have a "gay" tail. In the standard conformation of many (but not all) breeds, this is considered a significant fault.


	7. Final Results

Colonel Westward was beside himself.

"Ruined!" He howled. "Ruined – _you_!" He flung an accusing finger at Mycroft, who flinched. "You _bloody_ young fool, why didn't you hang onto that brute?!"

Even if Mycroft had known how to respond, he couldn't have because he was far too busy trying to keep a panting, squirming Redbeard from returning to his ladylove at the far side of the ring. He might not have managed it at all had the ring steward (bless her) not knelt down in the wet grass beside him to help – Mycroft winced to see her smart suit all streaked with mud, and thought he'd have no end of apologizing to do before the day was done (the ring steward herself seemed unfussed).

Sir Geoffrey (desperately trying to look serious but unable to _quite_ keep his mustache from twitching) put a placating hand on the Colonel's arm.

"Now Dad, the boy's not at fault…he was unprepared, the ground's very slippy, and that's a solid animal he's got there–"

"Feather-brained as well as feather-tailed!" the Colonel roared. "Just like his master, I don't doubt–"

"That's _quite_ enough," Mrs. Holmes said severely. Though nearly as mortified as Mycroft by this disastrous turn of events, she had, in her own words, a tendency to "turn absolutely monstrous" when it came to defending her family. "I'll not hear my boy called a fool by anyone, and not by _you_ , who should know from your grandson that he's easily the most brilliant boy at their school!"

Mycroft couldn't keep back a small groan at this. Had his hands been free he would have buried his face in them. The ring steward released her two-handed grip on Redbeard's scruff just long enough to give Mycroft a sympathetic pat on the shoulder; then hastily resumed her grasp when the dog took advantage of the movement by making an extra effort to break free.

"My _grandson_!" The Colonel leveled a severe glare at Mycroft's very chagrined-looking schoolmate, who, with his grandmother, was currently engaged in holding Perry back from rejoining the new object of her affections. "How can I trust the word of a sentry who _abandons his post?!_ "

Michael cringed. As it happened, the aroma of Mycroft's fish and chips had inspired him to seek out a helping of his own and, with Perry locked securely in her kennel, he had seen no harm in slipping off and leaving his family's bench unattended for a few minutes so he could fetch some. (He had not, of course, counted on Sherlock's lock-picking skills.)

From Perry's other side, the Colonel's wife gave an exasperated sigh.

" _Really_ , Henry – 'abandoned his post?' Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"Overreacting?! When that young man's negligence led to our prize bitch being accosted by that little hooligan, then defiled by that – that _mongrel_ –"

Mrs. Holmes' eyes snapped dangerously. "I'll thank you not to refer to my youngest as a _hooligan_. And as for our dog being a mongrel, I'll have you know he comes of champion stock. Why, his pedigree–"

"Madam, I don't give two damns if that over-sexed hound of yours is descended from the ancient kings of Ireland – he's not a _Labrador_ , and he's spoiled Westwood Kennel's finest bitch!"

Perhaps the Colonel's situation might have been met with more sympathy from the onlookers had the incident taken place at an official conformation dog show, but the spectators attending this casual, family affair were more inclined to amusement – amusement that increased still further when Mrs. Holmes stated her opinion that the Colonel could hardly blame _Redbeard_ for "defiling" Perry when Perry was clearly no better than she ought to be, judging by the way she had shamelessly thrown herself at their blameless pet.

This was perhaps an unfair assessment, as it was quite clear that Redbeard would like nothing better than to make an honest dog of Perry by bringing her home with the family as his mate. And from the way _she_ was ignoring the entreaties of Michael and his grandmother and straining mightily to escape them, Perry showed herself more than willing to leave her own home and family behind to follow Redbeard wherever he went.

This disloyalty incensed the colonel even further, and he assuaged his wounded feelings by declaring there was no way Redbeard could be expected to improve the Westward stock since it was common knowledge that Irish Setters are "too stupid to find their way to the end of the leash."

Since it was apparent that emotions were running too high to allow for a reasoned, amicable discussion, Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Westward drew their respective spouses away before any further inflammatory remarks could be made. Colonel Westward took his wife's place at Perry's collar and ordered his grandson to help him drag her back to their bench.

Both dogs protested vociferously at being thus parted, but their combined noise did not prevent Mycroft from overhearing Colonel Westward heatedly informing his grandson that his pocket money would be stopped for the next fortnight, and that he could expect to spend the rest of the summer on "kennel-cleaning duty."

Mycroft winced – as dull as Michael was, he was much kinder than Mycroft had realized, and it had been unexpectedly… _nice_ to not feel like an outsider for a change. A tiny part of him had hoped that the feeling might even extend to next term, but that was out of the question now, of course.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes used every towel they brought with them (in addition to the cloth from the hamper) to protect the car seat as well as possible from its three muddy occupants. Instead of sticking his head out of the window this time, Redbeard nearly smothered Sherlock by cramming as much of himself as possible into the boy's lap and, in a pathetic litany of small whimpers and moans, spent the entire journey home telling his boy about his star-crossed love affair.

Mr. Holmes kept glancing back at them in the rearview mirror. He tried to maintain a sober expression out of deference to his silently fuming wife and humiliated elder son, but he was a philosophical, easygoing man who had little difficulty in seeing the humor in life's twists and turns, and he couldn't help finding Redbeard's present misery rather comical.

"Desperate," Mycroft heard him mutter as he attempted to use his handkerchief to cover a laugh poorly disguised as a cough. "Bloody Romeo and Juliet!"

He did not laugh three days later when the bill for the champion stud's unused semen sample arrived in the post.

* * *

Following dinner the day after the show, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes informed Sherlock that, in addition to having his pocket money docked until he had earned his brother a new suit, he would have to write three very correct, very sincere letters of apology (one to Colonel and Mrs. Westward, one to the show secretary for disrupting the event, and one to Sir Geoffrey for interfering in his handling class). He was to be kept in until the letters were completed and sent, and they would not be sent, Mummy assured him sternly, until they had passed muster with her.

He was also told that his set of fine tools would be taken away "until such time as he could demonstrate he was mature enough to warrant the privilege of having them."

Sherlock was quiet following this pronouncement – an unusual occurrence, for his normal response in such situations was to argue his case like a seasoned lawyer (though this rarely worked in his favor).

"Well? Anything to say, young man?" Daddy finally prompted.

Sherlock swallowed, then said in a small, rather timid voice, "I didn't _mean_ for it to happen…I _tried_ to hang onto her. Truly I did."

He looked so sincerely crestfallen, even Mycroft couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for him.

Mr. Holmes sighed. "Son, no one could have expected you to keep hold of that dog," he said gently. "She outweighed you by at least a stone, _and_ she was responding to her instincts…I don't think she was even aware of you just then–"

"But you wouldn't have _had_ to hang onto her if you hadn't broken her out of her kennel to begin with," Mrs. Holmes cut in sharply, shooting a quelling look at Mr. Holmes to prevent him from further pursuing the subject of instinct just then. "You knew full well you weren't supposed to be in the Westwards' bench."

"And you're plenty old enough – and _more_ than intelligent enough – to know that a locked door to which you haven't been given a key is one you're not meant to open," Mr. Holmes added in an unusually serious tone, " _not_ to challenge your lock-picking skills."

Mummy huffed out an exasperated breath. "I should say _not_! How do you think your father and I felt – our youngest displaying the prowess of a first-class burglar? We were quite ashamed of you, young man," she finished severely.

Sherlock blinked rapidly and his small white face twitched.

Mr. Holmes took pity on him. "Best go on to your room for a bit now, son."

Without a word, Sherlock climbed down from his chair and left the room, shoulders slumped and head hanging. Redbeard, sensing his misery, fell in step beside him with his own tail drooping, and Sherlock automatically took hold of the dog's left ear in his right hand, hanging onto it for all he was worth.

* * *

When Mycroft passed the half-open door to Sherlock's bedroom an hour later, he saw his young brother lying on the bed with Redbeard stretched out alongside him. The child had one arm draped over the dog's side, and his face was buried in the furry shoulder nearest to him.

Mycroft again felt an unwilling tug of pity. It had not escaped his attention that Sherlock had been behaving in an unusually subdued manner since the show. The boy had been badly frightened by the row that had erupted. He hadn't cried (he seldom did), but the mixture of shouting (from Colonel Westward) and laughter (from the observers) had bewildered him. Worse, his usual first choices for comfort and protection – his dog and his brother – were unavailable: Redbeard, desperate to stay with Perry, seemed utterly unaware of the humans around him – including Sherlock. This had never happened in Sherlock's memory, and it had shaken him badly. During the altercation that followed with Colonel Westward, he had stayed behind his father, clinging to the back of Daddy's belt with both hands and trying to make himself as small as possible.

As for Mycroft, he had been too angry even to _look_ at his brother, let alone speak to him – even to insult him. As the summer holidays drew to a close, however, he began to think perhaps it had been too much responsibility to put on Sherlock to begin with. Mycroft knew he was wont to do that sometimes, forgetting that the boy's maturity did not match his intellect. He even felt slightly ashamed of himself for forgetting that, seeing as how he of all people should know better. After all, the adults in his life – including his own parents – continually did the same thing to him. Deep down, he thought he should probably forgive the brat, for it was clear he was miserable. When he wasn't working on his apology letters, Sherlock spent those last days of Mycroft's holiday moping in his room, clinging to Redbeard in a way that made his elder brother's heart ache. But Mycroft could be proud and stubborn, and though his anger cooled, his feeling of humiliation over the whole thing did not.

It did not help that the _boil_ hadn't apologized to him until prompted to do so by Daddy.

Shortly before he returned to school, Daddy drew Mycroft aside and assured him that, while he sympathized whole-heartedly over the dog show going pear-shaped, life was too short to carry a grudge. He also suggested that incidents that seem enormous when one is fourteen hardly seem worth the bother when one is quite grown up. Mycroft might even come to see the funny side of it, one day. (It should be noted here and now that, though nowhere near as intelligent as the rest of his family, Mr. Holmes possessed more life wisdom than all of them put together and was usually right about such things. In this instance, however, he was patently wrong.)

Mycroft listened, but did not respond. He was fonder of his little brother than he liked to admit and in many ways _wanted_ to forgive him – particularly when he observed the child's persistent subdued manner. Then he would remember his ruined suit, the look on Michael Bradley's face when his grandfather told him off, and the calendar showing the end of summer approaching.

Mycroft had many fine qualities; however, a readiness to forgive was not among them. It was March before he and Sherlock mended their relationship, and several things had to happen first before he was ready.

* * *

It was with no little trepidation that Mycroft approached his dormitory on the first day of the new term. He had lingered downstairs as long as he could, dreading meeting the other boys, whom he was sure would have been well-briefed regarding the disastrous dog show by a vengeful Michael. His parents hadn't been very accommodating regarding his fears; Mummy had said flatly that he could put the idea of moving to a new country and changing his name straight out of his head since he couldn't do that without permission, which she most certainly did _not_ give.

Ever optimistic, Daddy had predicted that Michael would have "forgotten all about it by now." As it happened, Michael _hadn't_ forgotten, and he had already filled his housemates in on the events of the show – but not in the manner Mycroft had been expecting.

When Mycroft, with a deep breath, pushed open the door to the common room, he nearly fell over in shock at the cheer that went up from the boys – a cheer that all but pushed him off his feet. He blinked bewilderedly as they grouped round him, all grinning and talking at once.

A slap on the back from Richard Carson, a burly, rugby-playing twelfth year who had never before given Mycroft the time of day, nearly sent him flying into a table.

"Bradley was telling us about the prank you pulled off at the companion dog show in Scarborough, Holmes," the elder boy said approvingly. "Wish I'd been there – it sounds brilliant. Never knew you had it in you!"

A small, second-year boy whose name Mycroft couldn't recall stood staring, wide-eyed and impressed. "I couldn't have pulled off something like that – all the trouble you could get into, and in front of Sir Geoffrey Westward, too! Weren't you scared?"

Mycroft literally did not know how to respond. Before he could think of anything to say, a bracing voice called out, "' _Course_ he wasn't! You should have seen it – ring steward all covered in mud, the dogs going at it in front of everyone…it was _brilliant_!"

Michael stood by looking pleased with himself for his part in the tale. He seemed to be basking in being the one who had discovered Mycroft Holmes' previously unsuspected depths of humanity, humor, and daring rebellion.

Mycroft cleared his throat awkwardly. "Er – Bradley. I'm – I was sorry you got told off because of–"

"Don't be, it was totally worth it," Michael cut him off happily. "It can be a bit dull staying at Gran's whilst my parents are away, and that was the most exciting thing to happen all summer. I'd do it again!"

Mycroft was the man of the hour. He was too stunned to take it in, but fortunately everyone was having too good at a time at the start-of-term party to notice his bemused reticence.

The admiration of Mycroft's housemates continued throughout the term. The boys all seemed to fall into one of three camps: the ones who believed he had been forced into showing the family dog by his parents, causing Mycroft to deliberately sabotage his class in retaliation; the ones who believed he had done it on purpose as a colossal joke, and the ones who believed he had been the unwitting victim of the antics of an annoying younger sibling (these tended to be the ones who had younger siblings themselves). In any case, Mycroft had gone from being that odd, scarily brilliant Holmes kid who made the rest of them uneasy to someone – well, if not someone _cool_ , at least someone more human and approachable, regardless of whether he was a rebellious champion for adolescent rights, a master prankster, or a tragic, put-upon hero.

It was all very bewildering. Mycroft was used to thinking of his classmates as the dullest, most ordinary set of young people in the western world, and had been frustrated by his inability to forge connections with them – connections he knew he needed to make if he was to get on in life. Try as he might, he had been utterly unable to impress them with his superior intellect and scholastic brilliance. That they were impressed because he had a wretchedly annoying little brother, was a failure at dog handling, and had fallen on his face in the most humiliating way possible was beyond astonishing. He had expected their ridicule – had been prepared for it – and instead he had their utmost admiration.

He knew he should be pleased – he supposed he _was_ pleased, in a way, but Mycroft hated mysteries, and he couldn't help feeling a bit disgruntled as well.

* * *

The second morning after Mycroft arrived home for the Christmas holidays, a grim-faced Colonel Westward arrived at the cottage with a cardboard box containing four adorable but entirely unacceptable mixed-breed puppies. To Mrs. Holmes' protestations he said tersely, "They're _your_ problem now…many happy, _bloody_ returns!"

And, spinning in his heel, the Colonel marched to his car and drove off without another word.

Mycroft, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, stared down at his brother who, with a crow of delight, had already liberated the puppies from the box and was now sitting on the floor as they crawled all over him, yapping and licking. Their father stood among them, looking down at his brood with great interest, ears pricked and feathered tail waving gently.

Groaning, Mrs. Holmes went to find some old blankets. "I'll make a place for them in the laundry, and find something for them to eat…but we're _not keeping them_."

Mycroft suddenly felt a hand settle on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw his father, smiling as he watched his youngest with the puppies. He pulled his eyes away to meet Mycroft's.

"You know, Mike…if you'd like to keep one of these little tykes, I'm sure I could talk your mother into letting you have one for a Christmas present."

At that moment Mycroft felt a tug on his left pyjama leg. He looked down at the fat, red-gold ball of fluff that was trying to get his attention. She sat back and looked up at him hopefully, wiggling her little tail back and forth rapidly over the linoleum. The puppy, like her siblings, favored her mother to the extent that a layman might mistake them for Labs if he didn't look too closely. But Mycroft could see plainly that Redbeard was her father, the litheness of the setter adding slimness and delicacy to the burly frame of the Lab, the ears a bit too long, the tail a bit too feathery, and a distinct reddish cast and silkiness to the golden coat. As the puppy's eyes, dark brown like Perry's, met his own, Mycroft felt a brief yearning – then remembered how disappointed he had been when Redbeard had preferred Sherlock over him.

"No, I don't think so, Daddy…thanks all the same."

* * *

The morning after Colonel Westward's visit, Redbeard's day began as it always did, with the dog carefully extricating himself from beneath a deeply sleeping Sherlock's out-flung arm, then padding towards the kitchen.

Mrs. Holmes and Redbeard were always the first up in the Holmes household. When the dog arrived in the kitchen he would find the woman sitting at the breakfast table in her dressing gown, enjoying a morning cuppa while, more often than not, leafing through a maths journal. Upon seeing the dog, she would speak kindly to him, setting down cup and journal as she rose to let him out. By the time he returned, she would have prepared his breakfast.

On this particular morning, however, Redbeard found the Holmes matriarch fully dressed, shoes on, handbag tucked under one arm, standing by the door as though she were waiting for him. Before he had a chance to wonder at this, the woman seized the bewildered animal by the collar and dragged him from the house.

When her husband and sons wandered, one by one, into the kitchen over the next hour and a half, they were astounded to find it empty with no indication as to where woman or dog may have disappeared. Mrs. Holmes doing an early shopping might explain the absence of the car, but an exhaustive search failed to turn up Redbeard.

When Mrs. Next Door spotted Mr. Holmes in the back garden whistling for the setter in vain, she was able to inform him that she had seen the lady of the house driving towards town wearing a very grim expression, while a miserable Redbeard howled nonstop in the back seat.

Back in the kitchen, a still-smarting Mycroft told his younger brother spitefully, "That's it – the puppies have sent her 'round the twist. She's probably taking your precious _dog_ to the vet's to have him put down."

"That will do, lad," Mr. Holmes said sharply. He rubbed his temples with his thumbs, looking harassed.

Sherlock was frantic. "Shut up!" He turned to their father while the puppies, forgotten, tumbled over his ankles. "Mummy _wouldn't_ have Redbeard put down, would she, Daddy?"

The anxiety in the boy's wavering voice caused Mycroft's conscience to twinge.

"Of course not, son," Mr. Holmes soothed. "Your mum knows you think the world of that dog, and even if she didn't, she would never do such a thing."

He looked a bit worried, though.

By late afternoon Sherlock was just about ready to hop on his bike and head into town to look for his beloved pet when Mrs. Holmes came through the kitchen door, a slightly groggy, deeply chagrined Redbeard cringing at her heels. When he spotted Sherlock he went straight to him; Sherlock had already knelt on the tiled floor, and the setter pushed his head into the boy's hands, whimpering.

"Redbeard, you're alive!" Sherlock cried softly, ruffling the dog's ears. "Good boy, _clever_ boy…"

Redbeard whined, trying to communicate to his master the horrible thing that had happened to him.

"Well, of _course_ he's alive, silly child," Mrs. Holmes said impatiently, firmly setting her handbag down on the table. "Such a simple thing – should have done it ages ago."

"But Mycroft said you'd taken him to the vet's–"

"And so I did." Mrs. Holmes was brisk. "A right baby he was about it, too, the wretch – I was ashamed of him," she added, glaring at the dog in question. Redbeard immediately pressed himself closer to Sherlock. "He's perfectly fine. More to the point, though – he won't be fathering any more puppies!"

Her husband and sons gaped at her. Then Mr. Holmes winced in sudden understanding.

"Really, now, love, was that strictly necessary?" he said reproachfully.

He spared Redbeard a sympathetic look. "Hard luck, old lad."

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Mrs. Holmes exploded.

If ever a dog looked mortified, Redbeard was that dog as he shrunk under Mr. Holmes' sympathetic gaze. Pulling away from Sherlock abruptly, the afflicted setter scuttled out of the kitchen.

"Redbeard, come back!" Sherlock cried. But for the second and last time in his life the animal ignored him, instead making a beeline for Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock hurried after him, but no dog was in sight when he arrived. He looked first under the bed, then in the closet. In the latter place he spotted the tip of a feathery red tail sticking out from under a pile of dirty laundry.

A seven-year-old genius is still only seven, and while Sherlock may have known more about the mechanics of the male anatomy than most boys his age, still he wasn't yet _quite_ capable of grasping fully the grievous blow that had been dealt his pet's masculine pride. Even so, a rare flash of sensitivity prompted him to leave the undignified huddle in his closet be, where it remained until late the following afternoon.

Redbeard sulked for a fortnight, during which time he allowed no one but Sherlock to come within five feet of him. (He showed a particular horror of Mrs. Holmes, cowering and hastily slinking from any room she entered with a firmly tucked tail (upon witnessing one such retreat, Mycroft thought sourly that it was a bit late for _that_ to do him any good.) Then he seemed to forget about it and returned to the placid creature he had always been, though perhaps a bit soberer than formerly.

 _Sherlock's_ sullenness, however, persisted through the remainder of the holidays, in part because he had been tasked with finding homes for the puppies. Mycroft thought he was being something of a baby about it – the puppies may have been worthless in the eyes of Colonel Westward and the Kennel Club, but they were also irresistibly cute and promised to grow into very attractive crossbreds, combining the best features of both their parents. This, along with the fact that Christmas was fast approaching, meant Sherlock had no trouble finding suitable homes for them all in relatively short order.

Mycroft had assumed Sherlock would protest the puppies' relocation, but once again – and it was happening more and more often as his little brother grew older – the younger boy surprised him.

"I already _have_ a dog," he said in reply to Mycroft's rather snide prediction that Sherlock would lament the loss of the puppies. "Redbeard's my best friend…I don't _need_ another one. It might hurt his feelings were I to keep the puppies."

It was clear by his tone that he thought Mycroft unutterably thick for missing something so obvious.

Mycroft's taunt died on his lips before this unexpected revelation of deep devotion on the part of his outwardly selfish young brother. He'd already known the dog was attached – ridiculously so – to Sherlock. He had not realized just how much Sherlock reciprocated those feelings.

Suddenly, Mycroft thought of the perfect Christmas present for Sherlock.

* * *

On a blustery day in January the entire family (sans Redbeard) accompanied Mycroft back to school for the Lenten half. Mycroft was on his second trip retrieving items from the car to take to the dorm when his heard someone call his name.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. Good to see you again."

Shifting his hold-all from one hand to the other, Mycroft turned, then froze in surprise. Before him, well wrapped up against the keen wind, stood Sir Geoffrey Westward, redder-cheeked and more cheerful-looking than ever in a green-and-black plaid scarf.

For once caught wrong-footed, Mycroft took a moment to find his tongue. "Sir Geoffrey," he finally stammered, his cheeks warming as the events of last summer came to the forefront of his mind. "I didn't think – that is, I hadn't expected–"

"I decided to spend Christmas with my parents this year, and stayed on through New Year's. My brother and I are both returning to London today, and decided at the last minute to join our sister and her family taking Michael back to school. I went here, too, you know," Sir Geoffrey added, casting a fond look over the courtyard. "Good to get a look at the old place again. It never changes."

"No, I suppose not." Mycroft looked around vaguely, hoping that the flush on his face might be attributed to the wind.

Hearing something in his tone, Sir Geoffrey shot him a sharp look from under his bushy eyebrows. "Not quite recovered from last summer's fiasco, then, are you, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, then saw that, though the man's expression was sober, his eyes were twinkling. He suddenly found himself grinning – an honest, boyish grin quite different from his usual shark-like one. "Not quite, sir. Almost, though. I was thinking about taking up wine-tasting."

Sir Geoffrey shouted with laughter, drawing looks from his own family as well as Mycroft's and some other students'. Mycroft found that, for once, he didn't mind a laugh at his expense.

"There's no doubt about it – a life spent with animals offers plenty of opportunities for making a chump of yourself from time to time," Sir Geoffrey commiserated. "How did you enjoy Perry's whelps? A likely looking litter of five, I thought…I admit my dear father doesn't _quite_ share my opinion..."

"Then he and my mother have something they can agree on after all," Mycroft said ruefully. "She tasked Sherlock with finding proper homes for them all by Christmas."

"Ah, yes…your little brother." Sir Geoffrey nodded towards a small group of people off to the side, talking animatedly. "Do you see that lanky berk over there talking to my nephew, Mr. Holmes? The one that looks a bit like a shoestring?"

Mycroft looked. Michael Bradley was standing next to his mother, who had one hand on his shoulder. She was smiling and chatting with a tall, rather thin man wearing a dark blue overcoat. The man's hands were stuffed in his coat pockets and his shoulders were hunched slightly forward. He seemed to sway a bit in the wind like an unwieldy pond reed. The tangled mop of curls that seemed about ready to fly off his head was the same ginger shade as Sir Geoffrey's.

"That's my younger brother, Reggie," Sir Geoffrey explained. "I'm very fond of Reggie…yes, very fond indeed. But he's the reason I believe in God, you know," he added seriously, looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft raised his brows. "Sir?"

"Yes," Sir Geoffrey said soberly. "Because it's nothing short of a miracle that I didn't murder him in his sleep before he reached his majority!"

For a moment Mycroft goggled at him. Then, seeing the mischief in the man's eyes, he glanced over to where his mother and father stood with Sherlock, talking to some of the other parents. He looked back and Sir Geoffrey, whose moustache was twitching, and – he couldn't help himself – he laughed. Sir Geoffrey positively _roared_.

"Yes," said Sir Geoffrey finally, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. "Tremendous restraint on my part, indeed – which I assume _you_ share in common with me, dear boy, seeing as how your own little affliction is still walking around after that debacle last July," he added, glancing over at Sherlock. Mycroft's little brother looked bored beyond measure, but their mother was holding his hand firmly to prevent him from sneaking off.

Sir Geoffrey turned his eyes back to Mycroft's. "A bright lad, I take it. But then, _you_ are as well, aren't you? My nephew told me you're first in your class."

Mycroft couldn't think of anything to say to this that wouldn't sound self-serving, so he said nothing. Sir Geoffrey smiled slightly.

"Brilliance is very desirable, but brilliance coupled with restraint especially so – in some lines of work, at any rate," Sir Geoffrey went on, giving Mycroft a shrewd look.

It took a moment, but when Sir Geoffrey's words sunk in Mycroft looked up at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

Sir Geoffrey nodded, as though Mycroft had answered a question correctly.

"I was impressed with how you handled yourself at the show, young man. Yes, most favorably impressed." He rummaged through his pockets, pulled out a card, and handed it to Mycroft. "I do hope you'll contact me when you leave school? I'm always interested in speaking to sharp young people who possess discretion and restraint."

Mycroft took the card numbly. For a moment he was too stunned to speak. "I–I will, sir, thank you," he managed finally, and it could not have been clearer that he meant it. Sir Geoffrey nodded again.

"Well – that's settled. Have a good term, Mr. Holmes."

As the man turned away to rejoin his family, something he said that had been niggling at the back of Mycroft's brain suddenly clarified. "But there were only _four_ ," he exclaimed aloud.

Sir Geoffrey paused and glanced back at him. "Eh? What's that?"

Mycroft, flushed, wishing he hadn't spoken, but it was too late now. "Er…you said Perry had _five_ pups, sir. The Colonel only brought us four."

"Oh yes." Sir Geoffrey was complacent, and Mycroft wondered if he had slipped the clue in on purpose to see if Mycroft would pick up on it. "I kept one. Sturdy little fellow. I know quality when I see it, and something in his eyes – parents like he's got? Yes, a fine litter. I have a feeling about this one…something about him…"

Mycroft goggled at him. "But…but they're _crossbreeds_ ," he stammered. "Your – that is, the Colonel – he was so angr– er, I mean, _disappointed_ –"

Rarely did Mycroft have such difficulty in formulating his thoughts.

The corners of Sir Geoffrey's eyes crinkled. "My _father_ places a great deal of importance on breed purity, Mr. Holmes. Well, no harm in that – I respect him, and he's a responsible breeder. But I look for quality elsewhere. Here, for instance," he said, tapping his temple with two gloved fingers. "And, even more importantly, here." He used the same two fingers to tap his breast, right over his heart.

* * *

The pup bore out Sir Geoffrey's faith. When Mycroft went to work for the Home Office ten years later, Sir Geoffrey – now nearing retirement – had been the one to introduce him around. To every person they met, the elderly man ended his recitation of Mycroft's many accomplishments by laying his hand on the younger man's shoulder (having to reach up to do it, for by now Mycroft had grown taller than he) and adding, "It's through this young man that I came to have the best dog I've ever owned; his red setter sired my Aegis*."

Even when he was quite an old man Sir Geoffrey would remark on this whenever he and Mycroft met – indeed, he continued to do so long after the handsome, lion-hearted Aegis had finally gone to his rest after sixteen years of unwavering devotion that included rescuing his master's beloved two-year-old grandniece from a pond into which she had fallen.

If Mycroft could not _quite_ relate to the quiver of emotion in the old man's voice when he spoke of the animal, at least he was grateful that Sir Geoffrey never shared the story of the ill-fated dog show.

* * *

On Mycroft's third night home during the Easter holiday, he was awakened some time after midnight by a soft sound– a pair of small, bare feet padding over a hardwood floor, combined with the faint click of animal toenails.

Rubbing at his eyes, Mycroft half-sat up, clicked on the bedside lamp and saw Sherlock standing in his doorway with Redbeard beside him.

"Sherlock." Mycroft glanced – his alarm clock read 1:24. He sighed as he dug his knuckles into his eyes in an attempt to blot out the spots dancing before them from the sudden change from dark to light. "It's too early…what do you want?" He couldn't help feeling exasperated.

Sherlock was quiet for so long Mycroft finally looked up. Squinting in the warm yellow light, he saw that Sherlock was wearing blue-and-white striped pyjama bottoms, an orange t-shirt, and a rumpled, purple cotton dressing gown. He needed a haircut – his unruly curls were hanging in his eyes and sticking out over his ears. Waking up a bit more, Mycroft studied him more closely than he had in months. He saw that the child's face was pale and pinched, and he had an odd expression on his face – half embarrassed, half…defensive? As though he might be waiting for Mycroft to tease him or start a fight.

Sherlock had grown taller – in his legs especially, which looked long in the rumpled pyjama trousers. The feet below his bony white ankles looked big. He was going to be a tall man, Mycroft thought – as tall as Father, perhaps.

Suddenly, Mycroft remembered Sherlock as a toddler, his legs that now seemed so long once short and chubby, but sturdy as he followed along determinedly after Mycroft, striving to keep up. As though he were flipping through a photo album in reverse Mycroft let his memory take him backwards until he came to the vague image of the tiny baby Mummy and Daddy had brought home from hospital.

Because he was the eldest, Mycroft had been responsible for Sherlock. It was he who had distracted him with board games when Mummy became lost in her theorems and Daddy his home projects. It was he who had set him back on his feet and given him peppermints when the child, always so eager to explore, got ahead of himself and tumbled down. It was he who had, at the four-year-old's request, helped him to memorize all the elements of the periodic table, carefully correcting the younger boy's pronunciation. And he was the one whom Sherlock had splashed, laughing, while he had read to the small boy from _The House at Pooh Corner_ when Sherlock was in the bath. He remembered the toddler shouting _idiotic!_ as he slapped the surface of the water with his chubby hands, his eyes laughing as water splashed the pages.

Sherlock's eyes weren't laughing now. They looked flat and gray, the green and blue and gold hues that often shot out of them curiously dimmed. He and Mycroft had been painfully cordial since the latter got home from school, but that was all.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft asked finally.

Sherlock shuffled uneasily. Redbeard, looking up at his face and whimpered, and Sherlock started to reach for the dog's left ear before catching himself and forcing his hand down. "I had a bad dream," he mumbled, not looking up.

Mycroft blinked. Sherlock suffered night terrors with fair regularity (though not quite so often in recent years), but he had stopped coming to Mycroft for comfort after the elder boy had gone off to boarding school.

Mycroft hesitated; then, with a sigh, shifted over to the edge of his bed, leaving an empty space between himself and the wall. "Come on, then."

Sherlock, eyes lighting up, didn't wait to be asked twice. He crossed room in two bounds and leapt into the bed, setting the springs creaking and almost sending Mycroft bouncing to the floor. "Settle _down_ , you boil," Mycroft ordered impatiently.

But Sherlock was still half-sitting up. "What about Redbeard?"

Mycroft saw that the setter was now standing on the rug beside the bed, looking at the two boys imploringly. He whined.

"There's not enough room in this bed for you, me, _and_ that hairy monstrosity," Mycroft said crossly.

Sherlock gave him his most devastatingly pathetic lost puppy look. Against his better judgment Mycroft weakened. "Fine," he grumbled.

Sherlock brightened at once. "Come on, Redbeard!"

With a great leap, Redbeard launched himself over Mycroft and landed with a huge bounce between both boys, nearly sending them both to the floor. Mycroft affected a scowl as he was pushed to a precarious position on the edge of the bed.

"Comfortable?" he asked sarcastically.

"Very!" Sherlock happily responded. Mycroft huffed a sigh, turned out the lamp, and settled back onto his pillow.

He was almost asleep when Sherlock said is a quiet, tentative voice, "Mycroft?"

"Mm?"

"I'm…I'm sorry."

"What for?" Mycroft mumbled, not opening his eyes.

"For what happened last July – at the show, I mean."

Mycroft snapped his eyes open in the dark, instantly wide-awake. He didn't move or speak, but Sherlock must have observed the sudden tension in his elder brother's muscles because he said, rather nervously, "I didn't mean for it to happen."

Mycroft remained still for several beats; then, with a deep sigh, he turned over onto his back. "I know."

"I really didn't – I didn't go to do it," Sherlock went on as though Mycroft hadn't spoken. He raised himself up on one elbow, and Mycroft could make out his gemstone eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "I thought I could hold her, and that Redbeard would do what I wanted. He's _always_ done what I wanted, before." He sounded forlorn.

"Don't worry about it," Mycroft said. Then, grudgingly, "You wouldn't even have tried baiting him with Perry if I hadn't thrown his ball away."

Sherlock lay back again. The silence that followed was long, but companionable.

"Sherlock – why were you so bothered about me showing Redbeard? It was just one show," Mycroft asked suddenly.

He expected Sherlock to childishly reiterate _Because he's mine_ , but there is something about late-night darkness that lends itself to confidences, and Sherlock surprised him by seeming to think it over before answering with rare honesty.

"Redbeard's my friend. My – my only – my _true_ friend." Sherlock's brow furrowed as he struggled to put words to his feelings. "My _real_ friend who doesn't think I'm a freak because I collect animal hair samples and do experiments. He doesn't get cross with me for knowing things other people don't. He goes with me on adventures…he _likes_ me," Sherlock finished, a trifle defensively.

Mycroft stared at him. Sherlock was glaring now, obviously expecting Mycroft to taunt him, and likely preparing a queue of insults to fire back once the name-calling began.

But taunting was the last thing on Mycroft's mind. He suddenly remembered the night that Mummy had come to sit on his bed and talk to him about how much better Redbeard made Sherlock, as though Sherlock were ill in some way and Redbeard a sort of medicine, and how that was a Good Thing. Mycroft hadn't fully understood it at the time, but even he had to acknowledge that the animal had a calming effect on his little brother that was better than any pharmaceutical – that he somehow enabled Sherlock to channel his restless energy and erratic behavior into more appropriate outlets.

Mycroft had always known that he and Sherlock were different, somehow set apart from the other children. Thanks to Sherlock and Redbeard, Mycroft had learned a great deal about how to get along with his so-called peers, and even – at times – to find their company faintly pleasurable. But they weren't friends – Mycroft had none, nor did he feel the need for any.

But Sherlock _did_ want friends, Mycroft suddenly understood – he wanted an audience for his brilliance, a sounding board off which to bounce his ideas, a companion who would help his flying thoughts stay grounded in the here and now. Unlike Mycroft, his books and experiments weren't enough. Mycroft _himself_ wasn't enough, though Sherlock did depend on him – the difference in their ages was too great, there was too much competition between them, and, most of all, they were too much alike in some ways – and too different in others.

Redbeard truly was what Sherlock needed at this time in his life, Mycroft realized. But, looking into this brother's almost-defiant face, he suddenly felt an urge to warn him that forming attachments was dangerous. He opened his mouth to remind Sherlock that, though Redbeard currently was in the prime of his life, he would likely not see Sherlock into adulthood.

Instead, he said, "I wasn't really going to sell him, you know."

Sherlock's defiant look evaporated at once to be replaced with a more vulnerable one. "Truly?"

"Truly. In fact…" Mycroft hesitated.

"What?"

Making up his mind, Mycroft rolled over, reached under the bed, and pulled out a flat box. "Here – I got you a Christmas present."

Sherlock stared at him, not taking it. "But we never give each other Christmas presents!" He sounded almost accusing.

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

Slowly, Sherlock took the box. "But…Christmas is long over."

"I _know_ that. I thought of it right _before_ Christmas, but I had to send away for it and it wasn't ready in time."

Bemused, Sherlock opened the slim box and pulled out a thick, green-and-white sheet of paper with a thin gold border and the Kennel Club Crest. He squinted to make out the typed characters in the moonlight. There was a great deal of information on the paper – breed, date of birth, color, sex, breeder, etc. – but the important information, Mycroft knew, was right at the top:

OWNER REGISTRATION CERTIFICATE

 **REGISTERED NAME:  
** _Redbeard_ **  
**

 **CURRENT REGISTERED OWNER:  
** _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ **  
**

Sherlock raised his eyes, which were now almost round. "Is this–?"

Mycroft smiled slightly. "He was _always_ your dog, Sherlock. But now it's official. I even changed his name – they were properly horrified at the registration office, I can tell you– _oof!"_

He got the breath knocked out of him when Sherlock pounced on him and did something he hadn't done since he was four: gave Mycroft a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek.

" _Blergh_!" Feigning crossness, Mycroft shoved him off and made a great show of wiping his cheek. "Now _I'll_ probably turn into a boil!"

Grinning unrepentantly, Sherlock carefully placed the Kennel Club certificate back in the box, kissed Redbeard on top of his silky head, and flopped back down onto the mattress. With the box clutched to his chest he rolled over and, in that peculiar way he had, fell asleep instantly.

Exasperated, amused, and touched all at once, Mycroft studied his softly snoring little brother for a moment.

Sherlock hadn't grown so tall after all, he noted in some relief, measuring the younger boy's length against his own body. Not up to Mycroft's shoulder yet. "Well…you'll always have _me_ , at any rate," he murmured gruffly.

With a long-suffering sigh, the elder boy lay back on his own pillow, closing his eyes. After a moment, however, an uncanny feeling of being watched made him open them again.

Redbeard was regarding him intently with his head raised and jaws slightly parted in a light pant that resembled a grin, the tip of his tongue just showing. Mycroft didn't hold with people who anthropomorphized animals, but he could have sworn the expression on the dog's face appeared to be one of tacit approval.

"Well?" Mycroft demanded, keeping his voice low so as not to wake his little brother. "Are you planning to blow your putrid breath in my face all night, then?"

To Mycroft's infinite astonishment, Redbeard responded by laying his beautiful head in the crook of his elbow. His tail thumped against the mattress, and his expressive eyes seemed to speak.

 _We do try to take care of our boy, don't we?_

Mycroft swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat.

"Ridiculous creature," he muttered huskily, giving Redbeard's long ears a quick scratch with his free hand. The setter huffed a happy sigh through his nostrils and closed his eyes.

 _I'll never be able to sleep with this daft dog lying half on me, and Sherlock the Boil pushing me to the edge of the bed,_ Mycroft thought resignedly, but he didn't try to shift either of them.

It was the best night's sleep he'd had in months.

 _Fin._

* * *

* _Aegis_ : guardian, protector, shield. In Greek mythology, "Aegis" refers to the bronze shield of Zeus and Athena, polished to such a high shine it reflected light quite easily. So in a way, _aegis_ can also be said to mean "conductor of light." :-)

 _Many thanks to englishtutor for proofreading this for me!_


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